


Read between the lines

by Mothfluff



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Professors, Crowley Has Chronic Pain (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Homophobia, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Other, Queer Themes, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23360002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothfluff/pseuds/Mothfluff
Summary: Crowley didn't exactly dream of teaching drama at uni. He wasn't particularly good at it, he'd convinced himself. It had proven disastrous in the past.Nevertheless, his new contract at a prestigious little university could be promising. At least if the adorable professor heading the LGBT+ club was anything to go by...~Aziraphale had always dreamt of teaching literature at uni, and his career path had lead him to his perfect position very quickly. Nothing was going to stop him from finally getting tenure and settling into the comfortable, albeit single life he'd always expected for himself.Nothing, except maybe the new replacement drama teacher and his irresistible... everything.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Anathema Device, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 72





	1. Drama at University

**Author's Note:**

> a little disclaimer: a lot in this story revolves around fears and worries about being openly queer, coming out, and what difficulties and dangers come with that. Homophobia and discrimation are mentioned, but rarely if ever actually displayed (and will be tagged at the start of the chapter if they do). If that is something that's hard for you to read, please be careful!  
> I do promise it has a happy ending, because this is still Ineffable Husbands, and they deserve nothing but happy in my opinion.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where we meet Crowley, watch him irritate and terrify his students, and ultimately find out what a disaster of a human he actually is.

“Have you heard the good news?”

“What, they're cancelling mid-term quizzes?”

“No, that rumour's as old as the school.” Marsha dropped her bag next to Henry, who shot her a look. Only second years could start the new school year with this much disdain already. Then again, the rest of the class didn't seem much more energetic, waiting for Prof. Vista to finally come in and start yet another round of 'where exactly you all failed in life to go for drama at university' instead of teaching said drama. Last year's sermon was still ringing in everyone's ears.

“I've not heard any good news, to be honest.”

“Well, then be prepared to turn that frown upside down!”

The girl next to Henry groaned, and he couldn't even fault her for listening in. Marsha's improv was bad enough when they were actually supposed to do it, but enduring it in real life was a true sign of friendship. She finally sat down next to him, a wide grin already on her face.

“Prof. Vista's not teaching this year.”

The girl next to Henry (god damn, at some point he should really introduce himself to classmates and remember their names) visibly perked up. “What do you mean?” She asked as she leant over the old desk.

“He's off sick for the whole year. Don't know why exactly, but the secretary said we were getting a replacement when I handed in those forms.”

“That's – that might not actually be good news.” Henry grimaced. “I mean, considering the replacement options.”

“Yeah.” The girl next to him chimed in (at what point would it become too embarrassing to ask for her name? They were probably past that already.) “It could be Professor Burr instead. Or Vista's old aide that got promoted last year.”

“God, don't go all sunshine and rainbows on me, guys.” Marsha shrugged. “Anything's better than Vista's constant ranting though, isn't it? Even if it's just Burr's rude-”

The chattering in the room that had started up after 10 minutes of waiting (5 more and they were all allowed to leave, that was the rule, at least that's what everyone said was the rule, although no one could ever prove where exactly that rule was written down) fell into silence as the door next to the teacher's podium swung open and someone very much not Burr- or aide-looking walked in.

“Right.” The mysterious man now on the tiny podium – looking as out of place as anyone ever could - said, covered in head-to-toe black clothing and with a fairly trendy looking pair of sunglasses on, as he unceremoniously dropped his bag onto the desk. “You may or may not have noticed that I am not Prof. Vista. If you haven't, I won't judge you, it's only the first day of class, I can imagine half of you are still mentally stuck on some beach get-away at summer break. If you wish to join us at any point to get back to university reality, let me catch you up to speed.” He at least had the decency to take a slow look around the room – eyes hidden behind the dark lenses, yet every student felt as if he was focussing on them especially - before rummaging through his bag. “Prof. Vista is taking a sabbatical this year, so I'm going to take over drama theory and practice. And his office hours and thesis consultation, I guess, though I doubt any of you are going to take me up on that. What's waiting one more year to graduate anyway, if you're going for drama? Starbucks will still be hiring next year.”

A quiet groan went through the room, along with a few snickers from those who mistakenly thought they could leave a good first impression by pretending to be interested. The precious glimmer of hope for a lesson plan better than being ranted at seemed to have flown out the window for all of them.

“Alright, anyone who found that funny should probably consider dropping out, because if your comedic values are that low, you really shouldn't be let loose on proper theatres any time soon.” He leant against the front of the desk, arms crossed, doing yet another rundown look of the student body sat in front of him with wary looks on their faces. No one was daring to even smile anymore.

“My name's Anthony J. Crowley, which I'm not going to write on the blackboard, because you're all at a point of your life where you should be able to deduct how to write that. Otherwise I see a dark future for your exams.” He picked up the stack of papers he'd gotten from his bag, giving it a glance almost as judgemental as he had given the classroom just before. “Vista's left me some lesson plans, because I guess he thought I needed kindling for my fireplace, which I don't have anyway. So that's that. I assume you got the basics of drama theory and stage compositions down last year, so for this term we'll focus on theatre history instead.”

The usual 90 minutes of class following were cut short once Crowley felt confident that he had at least alienated 40% of the students, and saddled the other 60% with enough prep work and book lists to last for the rest of term. The young students shuffled out of the room after only an hour, far too shocked and confused to actually be able to enjoy the free half hour they'd been given. Marsha, Henry and the as-yet-nameless girl they'd apparently dragged with them settled on the grass outside the lecture hall.

“The _fuck_ was that?” Marsha's usually sunny demeanour luckily allowed for a few swears each term, which she used very precisely. Right now it seemed more than fitting for her.

“That was Prof. Crowley, I suppose.” Henry shrugged as he went over the chicken-scratch list of books he'd written down – Crowley's verbal onslaught had not slowed down once he'd provided them with actual information. He would have to ask about some of them in the next class. “He's interesting, I admit.”

“Interesting?!” Marsha stared him down in a way he was used to, but most people did not expect from her smiley face. “He's a menace! Did you hear half of what he said? It's like he only knows how to communicate in sarcasm and insults.”

“And assignments.” The girl from the side mumbled past the sandwich she'd unpacked and bitten into. “Lots and lots of assignments that he won't explain further.”

“But that's the thing, though, isn't it?” Henry unpacked his thermos and poured himself some coffee. “He gave us _work_ , at least. Actual classwork, not just 'read the entire lecture book and then you know everything, I guess' like Vista.”

“I think you might be the only student who's actually excited about getting extra assignments, Henry. Might do a psychology paper on you next term.”

“Oh sod off.” He slugged Marsha's arm as she returned to her usual grin. “I'm not saying I like it, but this stuff seems more interesting that what we did last year, doesn't it? He wants us to read actual plays. Good ones, too.” He looked over another chicken-scratch list, full of random titles, terms and information that Crowley had dropped amid all his rambling. He would have to google some of this before next class.

“I guess.” Marsha bit into her apple with a bit more force than necessary, and then continued through a mouthful of it. “I wonder how much we'll learn, though, if he's not going to slow down a bit so we can actually write things down.”

“I managed just fine-”

“Henry we have established that you are an outlier amongst students and should not be counted. I expect a proper written list of the books from you, by the way, so we can get that out to the rest of class.”

“I didn't get all of them, I think, some titles sounded wrong-”

“Hah! See? Even you couldn't keep up-”

“I didn't say that, I'm just not sure about some names-”

“I wonder.” Nameless girl softly and immediately interrupted their bickering. “How his practical classes are going to go.”

Henry turned to her with the false courage he was usually lent from a non-argument with Marsha to ask for her name, just before Marsha herself shouted over him with another of her rare swears.

“Oh shit, we have improv with him tomorrow!”

-*-

The class was murmuring all throughout. They usually did improv in one of the smaller sports halls, just a bit off the side of campus, always slightly damp and smelly and thus an absolute favourite of Prof. Vista's to torture them in (sharp tongues said). Considering less than half of the students actually picked improv, there was no need for a bigger classroom, or an actual stage, or something resembling a lesson plan.

The schedule for this term, however, had given them the room number of the small theatre hidden away in the Classics' library wing, built there long before the university houses had been strictly divided into its faculties, and mostly forgotten by teachers and department heads alike. It was dark – no one had found the switch to turn the dimmed lights up – and a bit stuffy, warm and full of dust. And they'd been waiting for ten minutes, again, with no teacher showing their face into the room to ask what the hell they were doing here. Questions began to arise between the few students who knew each other – if this was a mistake, if the room hadn't meant to be unlocked, if it was written wrong on the schedule, if Prof. Crowley maybe didn't know where it was? If someone should go look for him? If anyone was stupid and daring enough to volunteer for that?

Before the murmuring could turn into proper chatter, the opening door threw a bright line of light down the dark orchestra pit and silenced them all.

Crowley's shaded silhouette could not have looked more sinister to the students if the creative writing teacher's newest class had been allowed to let out their deepest gothic desires. They only got a short glimpse of it, though, before the door closed again and the shadow disappeared into the dark, followed by a quiet click-click-click from the dial un-dimming the stage lights.

“What's going on here, now?” His voice appeared before he did, shaking dust from his hands and giving the students spread across the front seats another of his already established once-overs.

“Uh, improv class?” Marsha piped up from the back of the group and settled down very quickly when she felt a piercing stare even through sunglasses.

“What are you doing in the seats, then? Are you expecting _me_ to put on a show? Is that what counts as improv in this school?”

“We, uh, we've never really-” Henry's voice was far quieter than Marsha's, but Crowley's stare was not any softer on him. “We only got a sort of, well, an intro in the first year, and then, uhm, then some notes and guidelines and practice rounds-”

“Jesus H. Christ.” Crowley rubbed his fingers across his eyes, the sunglasses perching up to his forehead for a second before dropping down again. “Yes, of course, don't know what the fuck I was expecting from- Vista. He's probably got you all pretending to be trees or some horseshit and then getting angry you're not doing it right, as if you could.”

Marsha snorted. She'd been a very convincing hedge, but that was only because she'd picked it herself to drive Prof. Vista to the point where the veins on his neck were straining so hard it was difficult to continue class.

“Alright.” Crowley leaned against the small wall-in of the pit, legs stretched out and crossed before him. “Improv class 101 a la Crowley, then. Short for improvisation, which I hope you know, because I don't know what to do with you if you can't figure that out. What does improvisation mean to you?”

Henry's hand shot up and was only acknowledged by a curt nod from the professor.

“Improvisation is the act of doing or making something without preparation, with whatever things or options you're given at the moment.”

“Thank you, human dictionary.”

Henry shrunk down blushing again as Marsha giggled and stumped her elbow in his side.

“Not that human dictionary isn't right. That's basically what improv means for theatre as well. Getting thrown into random scenes and having to react – and act – on the spot. Supposed to help you better your acting by making you more open-minded to situations, and give you the option to jump through many different characters you might not usually pick.”

Henry wished he'd unpacked his notebook, and could only hope for Marsha's ability to remember exactly those parts of lectures he tended to forget.

“Alas, and to no one's surprise, I'm not really a fan of pure improv as it's usually done. I see no point in having you guys all pretend to be trees or random pedestrians or superheroes without some storyline, getting you nowhere in your practice. The way this'll go for future classes – and today, I guess – is that you'll get assigned characters from me that might actually improve you in the future. Throw in some plotlines or storyhooks as general settings, and then off you go!”

Crowley accompanied this with a grin and some handwaves that would've seemed motivating on other teachers, and seemed nothing but sarcastic and judgemental from him.

Silence fell over the class, before the unnamed girl that had sat down next to Henry again spoke up with as disinterested a voice as she always seemed to have.

“Right now?”

“No, only on Christmas and alternate sundays.” Crowley snarled. “Of course, now! Get your arses up on stage while I get the class list out.”

As the general shuffling and throwing up of dust subsided, Crowley'd finally found the student list in what could only be described as a jungle of papers in his bag.

“Right, from Vista's information, you've not collectively read a play last year, is that right?” He didn't wait for anyone to nod or otherwise agree before moving on. “We'll go with simple then. I assume you know at least the basic characters of Romeo and Juliet. Try to forget their plot, and just focus on the character itself. Henry Abbersmith.” He suddenly called out of the blue, and Henry raised his hand a bit less than he'd done before. He was not a fan of the bright stage lights in his face.

“Here, sir.”

“Ah, the dictionary.” Crowley seemed to actually take down some notes on his paper, and Henry worried for a second if it would have any impact on his final mark. “You'll be Benvolio. You know him?”

Henry only nodded and stepped back as other students were called up and given their roles, thankful for once that Crowley had picked a relatively easy character for him. He wasn't quite sure what to do if he'd picked someone-

“Marsha Chillet. You'll be Romeo.”

“Could I be anyone else?”

“Nope.”

Marsha swallowed. She was not grinning anymore, but not yet at the point of actual revolt, as she often was. “I'd really prefer a female role-”

“Then play that.” Crowley interrupted her with a shrug, met with a stuttering 'Sorry?'. “As I said, improvisation. If you wanna turn Romeo into Romy, then go for it, see how your fellow actors react to it, build on it. A scene should be about the characters' personalities and their motivations, not about what gender they present as. That's just shoddy writing.”

It was rare to see Marsha left speechless, so Henry made a short mental note to remember the moment as Crowley moved on.

“Sarah Clove.” The not-nameless-anymore-girl stepped forward a bit, and Henry rejoiced quietly that the awkward situation of asking for a name had dissolved before it even happened. “You'll be Juliet.”

“So you're making it gay?” Sarah asked without hesitation nor any intonation in her voice. Marsha shot her a dirty look nonetheless. “Just saying, if Romeo-Romy and Juliet are both girls.”

“If you want to make Juliet a Julian to feel better, go ahead. If not, sure, make it gay, or rather lesbian, queer, whatever you want. _Improv_.”  
  


-*-

_Improv_. What the fuck was he doing here, teaching goddamn improv to impressionable students?

He slammed his too heavy bag down on the desk in Vista's – now his for the time being, he supposed – office and dropped into the uncomfortable seat behind it. He'd been able to sit in the front row most of the class, and the way back to the drama department wasn't too far, but his feet and back were still killing him today. He wasn't used to it anymore.

He wasn't used to much of anything anymore, he realised as he looked at the stack of papers slightly sliding out of his bag. Two days in, and he'd barely memorised a single name. He was supposed to take down notes for every class. Keep a ledger, or something stupid like that. Show his workings, to be rated, approved and stamped off by the department head. He'd done it before, it shouldn't be that hard to do it all over again, even if it was only a distant memory that was quickly deleted once he got out of the job.

What the fuck was he doing here, really?

He decided to ignore the papers and throw his feet up on the desk instead, leaning far back and cracking his spine once, twice along the chair, letting his arms hang aimlessly down afterwards, staring at the ceiling.

He hadn't fucked up that much yet at least, had he? He'd done his best to scare off most students, so there'd be less to deal with in later lessons. He'd intimidated the others enough to not get too cocky with him. He'd only properly insulted one of them twice, and he could play that off as more sarcasm if things came to blow. He was also pretty sure he only used the words gay, queer and gender in improv often enough to be labelled as strangely weird, not outright rumour-worthy. Which was still, probably, two times too much for one class.

He'd slid around that massive fuck-up brewing with the brunette girl with the crazy smile. Martha? Marsha. A name that was easy to remember, at least. And goddamn fucking stupid not to notice. He'd always prided himself on noticing, and taking care, even if nobody would've ever expected it of him.

Then again, that would've brought in the chance of people seeing him as someone trustworthy. Reliable. Kind, even. Not a reputation he was particularly interested in. It never worked out in the end, anyway. Not with all the fucking up. It was better to plan ahead instead, look for exit strategies, set up the usual aloof and angry demeanour, and let people come to their own conclusions and rumours, as they always did. It had worked out great the last, what, four jobs he'd lost? Just great. Tiptop. Tickety-boo. A+, gold star for human trash A.J. Crowley, as always.

A loud, very insistent knock tore him out of that lovely round of self-flagellation. The door opened before he could even offer entry – barely enough time to get his feet of the desk and into a somewhat respectable pose at least.

“Mr. Crowley!” A voice boomed into the room, soon followed by its owner, who was just as annoying and superficially perfect as it sounded. The department head was standing in the doorway, beaming a bright, bleached-teeth smile at him that hurt even behind sunglasses.

“Dr. Crowley, actually.” He couldn't help but bite back. He barely knew Gabriel Archon, but what he knew so far did not make him like him any more than he'd liked any of the other department heads he'd worked for.

“Right you are, I forgot. Terribly sorry.” Gabriel smiled and did not seem sorry at all. “Just wanted to check in how you were getting on with it all. Day two, isn't it?” As if he wasn't acutely aware which day of the term it was for everyone. “Hope those drama kids are not too much trouble yet! Vista left you his lesson plans, right?”

“He did.” Crowley all but snarled, omitting the fact that he'd already left them near the shredder in his flat. “And the kids are fine. Finished improv class just now.”

“Aaah, improv. A fun class, then. Well, better dash, mustn't keep you too long, heh? Joking, of course, only joking. The contract's for a whole year, after all!” Gabriel clapped his hands, that endlessly false smile still sticking on. Crowley wondered if his cheeks ever hurt from it. Maybe he trained those muscles as well as he seemed to train all the other ones he had. He could just imagine him doing smiley pull-ups or something stupid like that in the mirror.

Before he could muster up an answer that wasn't an insult or nasty joke, Gabriel had already left him, keeping the door wide open. Crowley suppressed a groan before getting up, and then let it out anyways when he felt the fire in his back.

He'd not introduced himself to anyone else in the department yet – why bother? Was the overwhelming thought behind it – but if they were all even half as much...anything as Gabriel was, he wondered if he should even bother sitting out the whole year. The pay couldn't be anywhere good enough for it. (It was, sadly. And he needed it, badly.)

As he stood half into the hallway to close his door again, he saw Gabriel on the other side a few doors down, apparently putting on the same spiel in another teacher's door – except this teacher wasn't even at his desk but rather ambushed right in the doorway, bag still in hand to leave, and very obviously neither in the mood nor with the time to chat with the boss, but far better at playing pretend than Crowley was.

Crowley's eyes wandered up and down the poor fellow, who seemed to force a smile that, despite being just as fake as Gabriel's, felt miles warmer. He was short, a bit pudgy, dressed as if he'd stumbled out of a special museum's exhibit about the upper classes of the early 20th century, face and hair that could've felt just as home in a Rococo painting of cherubim, and a shadow over his eyes that belied any interest in Gabriel's enthusiastic shoulder-slapping.

Crowley felt something twinge just below his bellybutton. He was very adept in ignoring these feelings by now, though.

Gabriel had apparently finished his usual routine and moved on, leaving the view of the other teacher clear enough to get a better look. Not that Crowley cared to get one. He was simply slow on his feet today, that was all.

As his eyes finally wandered back up to the upper class angel teacher's face, he realised with an ice-cold shock that he was looking back at him. There was no more annoyed shadow over his eyes, rather a small glint of sunshine as his face turned into a genuine beam of a smile.

Crowley swallowed hard, almost hiccuped, and – slammed the door shut.

Sliding down towards the floor and burying his face in his hands seemed like a good reaction to _that_ massive fuck up.


	2. Living History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one were we meet Professor Fell, enjoy the chaos of his lessons, and listen in on some choice speculations, both said out loud and endlessly thought about.

Improv had actually been fun. After character assignment and the general story outline – which was barely anything, apart from 'you've heard a rumour, you don't like him, she doesn't like you, let's have a fight, please do not actually punch your fellow students or I'll get in trouble in the first week of term' - Marsha had gone crazy acting and pulling Henry along, flirting with Juliet-not-Julian, making makeshift weapons out of brooms they found in a nearby closet, and generally stirring up more dust than the tiny theatre had seen in the past decade. Suffice to say she was still covered in a layer of it as she plonked down in her seat for the next lecture. For once, they'd not had to run halfway across campus to the large auditorium from the tiny practice room, and yet she was still making the dust stick to her from the sweat she'd broken on stage. Henry handed her a handkerchief.

“That was brilliant!” She beamed as she wiped her brow. “I take back what I said. Professor Crowley is great!”

“Because he let you run around wild without interrupting you?” Sarah asked from the other side, cheeks still a bit pink from- acting, Henry supposed, although she'd been fairly quiet onstage as well.

“I mean, yeah, but, also, come on! You can't say he didn't give us a cool improv class!”

“He barely said anything. Apart from the sarcasm at the beginning and some interruptions in between.”

“True.” Henry agreed with a nod. “But to be fair, what he did say was good. Wasn't it?” A side glance to Marsha, who just beamed at him and nodded.

The chattering in the room subsided, yet again, as the door next to the giant blackboard opened up exactly on time – five minutes before the lesson began. There was no eerie silence this time, though, as the most professor-looking Professor any of them had ever seen stepped up to the desk in front. No one was all that surprised anymore, though, to see the department's oldest institution (at least after the old library he looked after sometimes) potter around.

Although Henry noticed that he seemed a bit more out of breath than he usually was, considering the short distance from his office to the auditorium.

“Good morning, dear students! Or, rather, good day, as the morning is already past I suppose. My name is Professor Fell, and I hope you've had a productive start into the new term, and still enough energy to stay awake during this, I'm afraid, somewhat boring lesson today. Then again, those of you who've had my classes last term know what is coming up ahead for first introductions, so I'm sure there is some coffee prepared to hand around.”

Prof. Fell kept babbling on as he dived into the official beginning of the lesson at the strike of the large clock behind him with impeccable timing. Marsha nudged Henry's side.

“That's a new bowtie. And sweater vest. Haven't seen green on him before.”

“The man is allowed some wardrobe updates. Even if they never make it to this century.”

“You love his style, admit it.”

Henry looked at the bubbly professor currently writing down several book recommendations – all of which he'd already read – on the blackboard. His dark brown, perfectly pressed trousers over light brown oxfords, the muted green argyle sweater-vest over an off-white dress shirt, a matching muted green bow tie on top of it all. The dark brown coat hanging over his chair even had elbow patches. Henry couldn't deny a slight fascination with Professor Fell's entire look. He seemed as if he'd stumbled out of some childrens book illustration about university. It was all rather charming.

“You think he found someone he wants to impress with that new look?”

“Who in this world could you impress with _green argyle_?”

They were silent for a while as Prof. Fell talked on and on without most of the students noticing that he'd actually started on a topic which they should maybe take notes about, which Henry was already doing.

“He's gay, isn't he?” Sarah asked in not even a stage whisper from the side. Henry could feel his hand clench around his pen without wanting it too.

“He's _something_.” Marsha whispered back, and only Henry would be able to notice the slight sting in her friendly voice. “And he's not shy about it, so not much fear in outing him. But no one has really figured out which letter of the whole LGBT-alphabet he prefers.”

“Oh. I thought everyone knew he was gay. Sorry, I misread that rumour then.”

Henry felt himself unclench slightly. A simple mistake. Something to gloss over, quickly.

“If you two don't mind, I'd really like to listen and take notes while Professor Fell _teaches_.”

“He's not even on topic yet-”

“He very much is, and you've obviously not paid attention-”

“Let's create a diversion, then.” Marsha grinned again and, before Henry could stop her, shot her hand up and waved.

“Yes, Marsha?” Prof. Fell beamed at her as he immediately stepped off of the verbal train going nowhere.

“Sir, the last book you recommended, does it say 'a gay interpretation'? Wouldn't queer be a better word to use?”

“Oh!” Prof. Fell bounced up with his entire body before turning to the blackboard and back towards the students again, obviously thrown off-track completely now. “That is a rather good question, my dear girl! The terminology of the LGBT+ community has changed a lot during the past few years, even more so than during previous decades, and the book-”

“There.” Marsha said as she leant back and let Prof. Fell ramble on. “We've heard that particular monologue about fifteen times, I'm sure you can quote him by now. And it'll get us at least ten minutes of chatting time.”

Henry huffed at her. “Sometimes he puts new information in between.” earned him nothing but an eye roll.

“I have another question and I hope it's not wrong this time.” Sarah stopped them yet again from the side as they both nodded and waited.

“Do you think Professor Crowley is gay? Or... queer?”

“Hoooboy.” Marsha exhaled, and, before Sarah's worried look about her question could jump over to Henry, continued. “That's a good question. I'm gonna say 50% yes.”

“50%?” Sarah echoed.

“No straight cis white male is gonna use the phrase 'the gender they present as' as easily as he did. But he didn't give us any other info to work with. And there's a lot of options under the queer umbrella. But he's also a drama teacher. Let's say 75%.”

“Stereotyping.” Henry teased her from the side, to which she nodded.

“Alright, 80% then.”

“Why does the number go up when-”

“Mister Abbersmith.” Professor Fell's voice was quiet, but cut through their bickering immediately. “Would you mind repeating my last statement, I do think I phrased it rather awkwardly for the others to understand.”

Henry sank down in his seat. It wasn't often that the kind literature teacher caught you, and even rarer to be subtly reprimanded for it, but when it happened – it hurt worse than actually being reprimanded normally. Luckily, Marsha was right by his side, and knew the monologue as well as he did.

“I think what you were trying to say was that we should take the use of certain words in historic documents with a grain of salt, but also try to see it in the context of its time and what that word has meant back then, rather than what it means to us right now.”

“Thank you, Miss Chillet. And now please refrain from distracting Mister Abbersmith further than you need. We do all appreciate his minutes of the class. I'm sure your discussion can wait until lessons are over.”

Marsha gave Henry an apologetic grin, which he only took with a slight grumble before getting back to his notes.

Professor Fell's class might not be fun, so to speak, but they were certainly interesting. He had, as proven in the first few minutes anyone met him, a tendency to ramble and drift off. It made following the lectures and preparing for exams a tad bit difficult, but they'd learnt during the first round of quizzes that he actually encouraged students to be just as rambling if they wanted to – you might not answer the questions properly, but you'd still get points for making an interesting point. Henry had taken to write entire essays on his favourite topics that sometimes got left behind, and had received more than one shiny, coveted “Very well done!!!” notation on his papers. (Not that Aziraphale wouldn't leave good notations for most of them, as long as they tried their best. It was only by phrasing and use of punctuation that they were able to tell the truly good comments from the nice ones.)

They had, based on all this, also figured out several ways to steer him the way they wanted to. No self-respecting students of Fell would abuse the knowledge, but if they needed a few minutes off-time they knew just which questions would get him back onto a particular topic that they knew well enough to ignore, and they knew which questions might get him to dive off into the deep end of stories.

Professor Fell was a well of good stories. The stodgy old teacher had, according to some rumours, lived several lives by now from which to pull them.

But today was his first day of classes and he was granted a bit of leniency, babbling through the basics of this year's lessons without being interrupted by any more questions. Only at the end of his sermon, as he was slowly beginning to pack up, did Marsha raise her hand again with a quiet 'Professor Fell!'. He just nodded at her with a smile.

“Sir, is LGBT+ club on the same dates this term?”

“Oh!” He said again, in that way only he did, and clapped his hands together. The rest of the students, half of them already packed and ready to go, stopped. “Thank you so much for reminding me, dear girl! It absolutely is. If anyone is interested, the official University LGBT+ club meets every other friday, starting this week, at 6pm in the study lounge of the department. The room number is – oh dear, I've written it down here somewhere- it's right across the library-”

“6029, sir.”

“6029, yes indeed, thank you Mister Abbersmith. So, if anyone is interested, you are all very welcome to come by, whatever your gender or sexual orientation might be. Usually we just have a good chat.” He gave them all a last beaming smile before class was officially let out.

It took Aziraphale far longer than usually to gather his papers, perfectly sorted in a system none of his teaching aides had ever understood, together properly before he could pick up the creaking old leather bag and shuffle out of the room. He almost hit the doorframe on the way out.

His mind was all over the place today. He hoped it hadn't shown too much during the lecture. Then again, his students were probably used to a little bit of a mental drift from him anyway.

As he made his way back down to the department offices, he couldn't help but drift again.

Who _was_ that man in Professor Vista's office?

Well, obviously, he was his temporary replacement. Aziraphale remembered when Gabriel had officially announced Vista's sabbatical to the rest of the department – two weeks after the man himself had already disappeared – with the slightest of cracks in his annoyingly perfect smile. A fellow from somewhere in London was to teach his courses for the year, though he couldn't remember which University.

But that still didn't explain what that man in the office _was_.

Aziraphale had never, in his decades of work at the university, seen a professor like him. Some aides, M.A. assistants from overseas maybe. They tended to like the more non-conventional looks, the 'hip' things that Aziraphale was never quite privy to, the all-black and slim-cut and nonchalantly flowing locks and something that had been explained to him as 'manbuns', which had led his mind to quite a different interpretation than a 'hairstyle'. But a professor?

Then again, it was drama. He'd met all kinds of interesting people in the creative arts, free of judgement and open with themselves like nothing else. Part of why he felt so enamoured with them, even though he could never get into it himself. Not exactly meant for a stage, this little roly-poly figure of a man that he was, with his stammering and fidgeting.

He could see the visiting professor on stage, though. He'd only gotten a short glimpse of him, but it was enough to imagine him up in the lights, gesturing, throwing his inexcusably slender limbs around as he monologued. Maybe in a more, well, theatre-suited outfit than an entirely black ensemble with sunglasses. The long copper waves would certainly lend themselves to a Shakespearean get-up, or a more Wilde-an setting maybe.

God, would you look at him? Aziraphale scolded himself. He'd barely seen the man, let alone officially met him, and here was building up some strange fantasy play for him to act in. He'd learned better than that several years ago, surely. His mind drifting off occasionally did not mean he had free reign to just... imagine things about other people. That's how rumours got started. That's how trouble started. He knew that well enough.

Aziraphale shook his head. He'd made it to his office door without really noticing. A short glance, and he could see over to Vista's office, door shut just as tightly as it had been after it was slammed close about 90 minutes ago. Maybe there was a replacement name plaque on the sign already. Gabriel was quick with these things, or rather, his assistant was. He could have a look, at least learn the name of the young man before he ran into him again.

Before his feet could follow the voice in his head, an entirely different voice pulled him into a different direction.

“Professor Fell! Are you free for lunch?” Miss Device smiled at him in that way only she could, that seemed both friendly yet worrying, as if she was planning a bit more than she let on. Nevertheless, he smiled back.

“I've told you before, Anathema, please call me Aziraphale. And absolutely. I would love to go to lunch with you. The cafeteria, or someplace else?”

“I was thinking the little cafe across the street from campus main hall? Or do you have class right after?”

“No, no, I've got the afternoon free for studies. Let me just put my bag away.” Aziraphale shook his head as he stepped into his office. He loved the little cafe, but... something in the back of his mind realised there was less of a chance of running into the mystery man there than down in the cafeteria. Then again, it was tuesday, which meant they'd be serving that lovely tomato soup again...

In the end, the soup won.

As he returned to Anathema and the mismatched pair walked towards the stairs, Vista's office door crept open ever so slowly. Crowley was glad he'd heard the voices in the hallway right as he was getting ready to step out and see if the cafeteria had improved in any way from yesterday, so he could quickly drop that decision and hide in the office a bit longer. It wasn't that he was actively avoiding his new colleagues, it was just... easier, he reasoned. Whoever that Professor Fell and Anathema were and wherever they were going for lunch (he had to remember how thin these walls were if he were ever to chat to anyone in the hallway), they sure as hell didn't need him as an unrequested addition if he'd run into them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I PROMISE you we're done with introductions and they will meet next chapter. At some point.


	3. Chance Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which it seems like things are actually going well for Crowley until mistakes are made by everyone, especially himself.

Class with Crowley wasn't that bad, Marsha, Henry and Sarah had decided, along with some more students. Sure, the rest of the student body was already trading rumours about the rude, condescending, overly sarcastic black beast that had scuttled into the drama section and could mostly be seen lurking around the cafeteria without eating anything, or sneaking out of the theatre to go straight back to his office. But that was only half the picture.

The other half of the picture was far more fun than expected. The other half was him snarling at anyone raising their hand and going 'Professor!' and demanding to be simply called Crowley, at least in practical classes. The other half was improv being the best part of the week to look forward to, as long as you applied yourself and didn't moan about anything (Crowley was very much against moaning on stage. He said that was reserved for subpar red light productions, which elicited a few snickers and a lot of unasked questions). The other half was actually _learning_ things in practice, getting tips and good criticism from the darkness of the front seats where he'd slung himself over the chairs in poses that looked worse than what they were trying to do on-stage.

Crowley was never on stage for improv, they'd noticed, safe for that one time during the second week when they'd cleaned together.

Marsha and Henry had been a bit early that day, and courageous enough to go in and turn on the lights themselves. That did not make things look any nicer when they climbed up on stage.

“Yeah, I'm not sitting down here and wait.” Marsha said as she kicked up some of the dust that had been swept around by their acting last week. “Is that- is that rat poop?”

“Could be just mouse.” Henry answered with a look at the little black dots. Marsha's entire body shook.

“Yeah, no, that's not. Not any better. Didn't we find some brooms last time?”

“Cupboard down the stairs, wasn't it?”

“Right.” Marsha was already rolling her sleeves up. “Let's get to work, then.”

Crowley had stumbled in on them sweeping the stage only a few minutes later (he could be early if he wanted to, for fuck's sake, and he was going to prove it, even if it was only to himself).

“Are you already started? The rest of the class isn't even in yet.”

“We're just getting rid of the dust.”

“Far as I know the campus has a cleaning crew. Pretty sure I can put a work order in for the theatre now that it's in use.”

“Yeah, well, we're here now, so we might as well help out. We'll just be dragging in more dirt later anyway.”

Crowley looked at Marsha with something she couldn't quite place. It was hard enough reading his expression with those sunglasses on all the time, but it was even harder when his mouth was nothing but a line instead of the grins and sneers he'd employed in the first week.

Luckily it only took a beat before exactly one of those grins spread across his face.

“You got a point, kid.” He reasoned as he climbed up on stage – a bit slower than they had – and reached for her broom. “Lemme help. You can get the dustpan then.”

They'd cleaned the rest of the stage in silence, not really at a point yet to comfortably chat with a teacher, and she and Henry had come in a bit earlier each week to do a quick sweep-down, even after Crowley had filled out the annoyingly endless form for the cleaning crew. It earned them that grin each time Crowley came in (always on time now, at least for improv), and for some reason, it was worth it.

It was worth a lot to earn any sign of positive feedback from Crowley. It was sparse, and hard to identify most of the time amongst the sarcasm and biting jokes, but that only made it feel better. It hid in those lop-sided grins, the occasional nod with raised eyebrows, the little remarks that had a bit less bite than usually.

They started to fight for it. A lot of students had dropped theory class after the first or second week, not content to put up with the load of reading assignments _and_ the difficult teacher. Vista would return to an overfilled class next year, that much was sure. What remained for this year's course were the ones who thought any drama class was easy credits if they cheated the tests just right, and everyone who'd survived the first two improv classes. Amongst them, Crowley's approval was presented like sports trophies. Seven weeks into the term, and only a few of them had been graced with one.

They were even harder to get during theory classes than at improv. Whether they liked him or not, no one would argue that Crowley was particularly adept at teaching theory lessons. They mostly fell into two categories – a rant so epic and endless it rivalled Professor Fell's, except more on topic than him, or the lacklustre offering of more reading material and 'discussion time'.

The second was usually a good indication for what the students had simply dubbed Crowley's 'bad days' (not realising that they hit the nail on the head for what he would call them himself). He seemed to have quite a few of them – coming in twice as grumbly as usual, sometimes with a giant thermos of coffee, sometimes reeking of cigarettes. “Hangovers”, Sarah would whisper and be shushed by Henry, but it was hard to deny that it looked exactly like some of the older students and teaching aides would after party nights off-campus. Sometimes there was more to it, though, a slight limp, a quick twitch when he moved to get the papers out of his bag and tossed them into the first row to be spread out amongst the students.

He'd hand out old university essays, newspaper columns by well-known theatre critics from London, a hastily photocopied chapter from a book once. “Read it”, he would growl while sitting down again, “and then tell me what you think.”

That was the entirety of the lesson on bad days.

Marsha had been particularly cheeky once, raising her hand immediately after the instructions. She'd smiled after Crowley had acknowledged her with the usual short nod.

“I think Emily Dickinson's a lesbian.”

That earned her a moment of terrified silence from the class, and – half a grin from Crowley. He didn't grin on his bad days.

“You can point out the obvious in your literature class, Marsha. Now get to reading.” He said, before mumbling a quick “partial credit, though”.

Marsha was beaming more than ever the rest of the day. A joke, a grin _and_ her first name, on his bad day even. That was definitely a Crowley trophy to hold dear.

The rants were, clearly, more interesting. They were meant to study history in theatre this term, as it said on the lesson plan (obviously not written up by Crowley, who refused to write anything unless he was absolutely required to), but that mostly meant he picked random old plays that he either liked or hated and let loose on exactly what he thought about it. Henry was hard-pressed to take notes amid the swearwords and exaggerations, until he realised that Crowley's ranting was interspersed with facts, notations, and actual historical information. By then, he was glad his writing speed had picked up thanks to Professor Fell.

Unlike Fell, you couldn't exactly distract or direct Crowley with questions during his rants. He did not complain, however, if you threw in your own comments, if you dared to raise your hand, and would jump on them to prove his own point or begin arguing with himself over it.

Some of them, though, would throw even him off of his endless rhythm. Sarah was particularly good at those, as she proved during the current rant.

“Yes, Clove, what is it this time?” He already asked her warily. Her last question a week back had referred to some kind of physics theorem mentioned several lines down in the play, and had thrown him so far out of the loop that he'd literally gotten his phone out in class to google it.

“Sir, it seems like most of these modern interpretations or critics you mention are writing about the plays from a non-heterosexual perspective. Is that something new from them, or was everyone writing plays back then just gay?”

Crowley stared at her. Henry could barely suppress a groan, waiting for the explosion or awkward excusing he was used to from lecturers and teachers. But then... then Crowley laughed.

Well, it was more of a cackling. It was not exactly a pleasant sound, so to say. But it was one they had never heard before, and there was something akin to actual joy in it as he threw his head back and then stared Sarah down again to answer her.

“Yes, Clove, everyone was just gay. All the time. Everywhere. It's the drama world's most badly kept secret. We're all just extremely, extremely gay.”

Sarah rocked in her seat. She didn't do well with sarcasm, but she could at least tell when it was directed at her. Crowley's face seemed to soften.

“No, but honestly. It's obviously hard to figure out how dead people from the past might have identified if they haven't outright stated it somewhere, and most of the time they weren't given the many terms and options that we have today. All we can do is speculate, look for the little hints, and try to see their stories in different lights. Some people will protest it vehemently. Some will try to always force it into just one niche. The question I'd ask though, rather than 'did they intend to write it this way because they felt that way?', would be 'can _we_ read it this way because _we_ want it to feel that way?'. We're not just reading history or literature here, we're reading plays. In order to keep them on stage, we need to transport them into today, keep them interesting, and if that means making it gay?” He shrugged, and they were reminded of their first improv class. “Then make it gay. I'm all for it. Keeps things fresh.”

And with that, the topic was done and Crowley returned to his rant. Sarah leaned back in her seat again as Marsha pushed a slip of paper down towards her and Henry. (They'd learned that chatting in Crowley's class didn't work out too well, but writing notes was generally accepted or, at the least, less noticed.)

_A proper laugh and actual thesis paragraph from Crowley – 5 star approval Sarah_

_u sure_

_oh def_

_that was a LAUGH?!?_

_!!! totally_

_he's gay is he_

_not this again_

~~_99%_ ~~

_100%_

“I'll have that, thanks.”

Crowley noticed Marsha going white as a sheet as he reached across her to take the note that had fluttered across the table several times.

They couldn't see his face as he turned back to the teacher's desk while reading it, which was good – he wasn't quite sure how to explain the fervent lower lip-biting that kept him from both screaming and laughing.

He shouldn't laugh. The note wasn't funny (except it was, extremely. Why the 99% first?). This was bad. This was fuck-up level 10, at least. He'd gone too far, as always. It was one thing to mention queer topics. It was another to immerse the whole lesson in it, apparently. It was an entirely different thing when students began to speculate.

He'd have to keep them back after class, he thought as he shoved the note into his bag, reprimand them for writing notes, then somehow disavow them of the notion that he was anything but a genderless, sexless creature made to stand in front of them thrice a week and fill their heads with information. That was his job. Nothing else.

He tried to continue on his usual rant, but stumbled too often not to be notable. This was turning into a bad day, and the pain hadn't even started yet.

When class was over, he completely forgot to ask for the trio to stay behind. They were at his desk nonetheless after everyone else had shuffled outside, much to his surprise.

“We wanted to apologise.” Henry mumbled. “For writing notes in class.”  
Crowley tried to turn his face into a blank slate, lest they thought he was actually angry. They looked even more like children up close, timid and terrified. Was that boy even shaving yet?

“Apology accepted.” He answered without any inflection. That was easier than he'd feared. They were smart kids, he was relieved to remember.

The group did not leave, though. Henry pushed his elbow into Sarah's side, who almost jumped. Maybe blank face had not been the right choice. None of them could look at him.

“And for what we wrote.” She mumbled.

It was a spur of the moment decision, and Crowley was sure he'd berate himself for making it for several hours tonight, but he had to ask. He couldn't not make this into a teaching moment, it seemed. Teacher-mode was hard to turn off after almost two months of training it into his brain.

“And why do you think you need to apologise for what you've written?”

“Cause it's bad.” Henry mumbled, but at least he wasn't staring straight at his shoes anymore.

“You think being gay is bad?” No, the bit of Crowley's mind that was at least somewhat intelligent screamed. That was not the question you wanted to ask, oh god, do you have to poke into a wasps nest every time you see it? Turn this around, don't ask that, don't ask _him_ that, haven't you noticed, haven't you promised to take care?

“Being gay isn't bad.” Marsha's voice was steadfast compared to her friends. Not much could shake that girl anymore, Crowley figured. “But making assumption about someone's sexuality or... anything is bad. So we clearly need to apologise on that front.”

“Good point.” Crowley nodded. “You're right, starting rumours like that is not a good idea. But at least you kept it between you three instead of, I don't know, asking me outright in class.” He glanced at Sarah, which she hopefully didn't notice behind his glasses. He wouldn't put it past her bluntness to ask something like that, though.

“A lot of people are speculating on it, you know. About you.” She piped up and proved him right before Henry could stomp on her feet.

Crowley's brain short-circuited, and the smart part of it took off.

“For fuck's sake.” He pinched the bridge of his nose before sliding the glasses back into place. “This is not a trivial thing, guys, spreading rumours or starting discussions like this at someone's workplace could-”

“It wasn't us!” Henry protested. “We're not going around dis- discussing things! We're not outing you, or, or other people, we're-”

“No, you're just going around writing notes about what gay percentage people have, apparently.” Marsha almost recoiled at his biting voice and he wished he could turn back time and take it down a notch, but Henry was already interjecting, like something had lit a fire under his ass.

“That was a joke, a bad joke, but we're not showing others or-”

“Abbersmith, these kind of accusations are not for jokes, they can lead to serious trouble-”

“Being gay isn't something to be _accused_ of-”

“ _This is not class discussion time. I will not argue with you about this_.” Crowley hadn't wanted to raise his voice – he was generally a better fighter if he kept quiet – but he was not about to discuss semantics with a fresh-nosed little kid about _this_ kind of topic. He'd half-risen out of his chair, which was the worst decision he'd made yet, both for the absolute look of terror on the kids' faces as well as for the sudden bolt of lightning going down his spine. He dropped down just as fast, tried to corral his voice into something that sounded more like a human teacher and less like a raging disaster, and sighed.

“I'm not discussing this with you. You've apologised, I've accepted it, and I hope you learn from it. Now get your arses out of my goddamn class room.”

Almost. He'd had it, almost.

He was still screaming inwardly at himself sitting in Vista's office – _his_ office, wonder how long that would keep up – long after he'd made it back from the lecture hall. His back was killing him. His legs were killing him. But most of all, his brain wanted to kill him.

One day. In just one day, he'd managed to halfway out himself, almost scream at a student, and frighten off the few kids who might've been clever enough to actually get somewhere with his classes. It hadn't even started off as one of his bad days, but it would sure go down in his personal history as one of the worse ones.

Well, he'd made it eight weeks before going off the wrong end. At least that was a personal best of sorts as well.

A short, soft knock pulled him out of another round of self-flagellation. Fearing the worst and prepared to defend his doorstep from another assault of Gabriel, he actually got up – wincing – to open the door.

It was not Gabriel, but maybe that would've been better.

“Chillet, I-” He started before he even had a proper sentence in mind, but luckily Marsha interrupted him by holding up a flyer towards him. He took it almost as a reflex.

“I only wanted to give you this. I mean, I coulda pushed it under your door. But, uh, that seemed, well, weird. If you were in here. So I knocked to check.”

Crowley wasn't really listening to her nervous story. He was staring at the flyer now in his hand, a garishly bright rainbow background covered in all kinds of fonts. _Official LGBT+ Club_ , he read. _Alternate fridays, 6pm, student lounge, arts and humanities._

“Why are you giving me this?” At least he'd managed to form a proper sentence by now.

“It's all official, like it says here.” Marsha seemed to gain some of her confidence back as he'd not shouted her out of the hallway yet. “Supported by the university. Founded by the department. Sometimes teacher aides come by, or, some professors even, and Miss Device-”

“Chillet. Why are you giving me this?” He repeated.

“Because.” Marsha took a deep breath. “Because it's a great thing. A cool thing this university's doing. And if you wanted to, I mean, if you would think about coming, I think that'd be great. I think it would be cool to have you there. We could have good discussions. Sometimes we just chat.”

He kept staring at the flyer. She was obviously waiting for something. Not an outright answer, maybe, but at least some acknowledgement.

“Thank you, Marsha.”

It earned him a smile, not the beaming one she usually had, but a smile. That was something, he thought as she speed-walked away. Maybe he hadn't scared them off completely. Maybe there was a bit of hope, turning this fuck-up around.

Still, looking back at the flyer, he wasn't sure whether she'd handed him a lifeline or a death sentence.

Fuck it. All in. All or nothing, it's not like he knew how to do anything else.

-*-

“I really don't know how I got you to drag me here. You're still on friendship punishment time.” Henry huffed as he leant against the wall next to the student lounge. They were waiting for Sarah, and she wasn't comfortable going into a room she didn't know well alone, despite having come to the last three meetings, so they'd decided to meet up in the hallway. But she was late. Henry could already hear the general mumbling chatter on the other side of the door.

“I know, and I'm trying to make up for it, see? We're going to have fun tonight. And I already promised you, like, twenty times that I'll never write another note in Crowley's class. Which you know is a proper lie but I'm sticking to it.” Marsha gave him what she hoped was an uplifting smile.

Lucky for them both, Sarah arrived just in time to stop that particular conversation.

“Hello.” She sidled up to them with a nod. “Everything good?”

“Henry's just being mopey as always.”

“I'm not-”

“Okay. All's good then.” Sarah pushed something on her phone before putting it away and turning to Marsha. “Do you think he's coming?”

“Oh, I don't know, I wouldn't bet on it.”

“Who's coming?” Henry looked between the two girls and realised far too late that Marsha's face was doing something indecipherable.

“Crowley.” Sarah said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Why would-” Henry fixed Marsha with a stare that was more piercing than you'd expect from the shy boy. “Marsha, why would Crowley be coming to LGBT+ club.”

“I gave him a flyer.” She mumbled into her scarf, and, after Henry pushed her with a pointed 'Sorry?', repeated it a bit louder, a bit more desperate. “I gave him a flyer!”

“You WHAT?”

“I thought- he looked so miserable! I felt like he needed a positive sign. It seemed the right thing to do.”

“And you- you just thought- and then- and you told _Sarah_ before you told me-”

“Because I know you would react like this, you always do this-”

“I'm not doing anything, I'm not being the absolute idiot here-”

“Hey.” Sarah interrupted them, yet again, and Marsha felt blessed that she had decided to befriend them if only for her magical powers of stopping brewing fights without noticing. “He's coming.”

“Oh good lord.” Henry whispered as he was looking down the hall.

Crowley was strolling – no, he was almost swaying down the hallway towards the trio. The grin on his face was terrifying, and he knew it, and he didn't care. The look on their faces was too good not to enjoy it a little bit, in that sadistic way you could get into when you'd already given up on everything else for enjoyment.

He'd spent the rest of the week up to this meeting mulling things over, the only way he knew how, with a lot of caffeine, a lot of alcohol, a lot of cigarettes, and very little interest in self-preservation. Going to this club could be the breaking point. The start of the shit show. It had happened before.

But it was an actual queer club, by the university, for the university. That was a a novel thing worthy of checking out, at least. Not something he was used to.

And the kids. Not that he wanted their approval, or for them to consider him likeable, or anything stupid like that. But they'd invited him, in a way, and he had a certain reputation to uphold of being a no-good contrarian, and wouldn't it be fitting to start discussions and rile up the chats at club then.

So, he'd decided this afternoon, after another six cups of coffee and about two glasses of wine for which it was far too early in the day, he'd go. But he wouldn't be nice. He wasn't expected to be nice. He was expected to put on a bit of a show, add to the list of rumours of the horrible drama teacher making scenes. That's what he would do.

If it worked out well, he could play it off as just 'the way he did things, and what do _you_ have to say about it?'. If it worked out badly, he could turn it into a believable 'I never wanted to come here anyway, if the kids hadn't asked' and get out as quickly as possible with his reputation somewhat intact.

So he swayed down the hallway towards the library, fuelled by caffeine and just enough alcohol to not feel the sting of anxiety in the back of his head.

 _Show time_ , he thought as he saw the three students huddling at the side of the door. He gave them barely a nod and absolutely no time to say hello before he pushed open the door with just a bit too much force.

“So, this the queer club then? Where all the gays meet up?” He hollered into the suddenly silenced room. Some students he recognised. No faculty member, he noticed with an exhale, although he wouldn't recognise them anyway.

Actually, one faculty member he recognised immediately.

“This is the LGBT+ club, yes. But we do welcome everyone. Not just... 'the gays'.” Aziraphale smiled at him, a bit more wary than he had back at the offices, and every synapse in Crowley's brain screamed. Of the myriad of possible scenarios he'd imagined the past days, this one had never come up. If it had, he'd never shown up in the first place.

He could just go. Fight or flight was his usual routine, and he was brilliant at picking flight and goddamn committing to it. He could turn around, close the door, pretend he had the wrong room, wrong place, wrong everything. Run off and hide and never come back and just accept the fact that he was trash made human.

But the kids were still in the hallway. And the upper class angel teacher was still smiling at him, even after _that_ intro. And amidst the constant screaming in his head, something seemed to... give up. Settle.

“That's good.” He mumbled, not knowing what exactly he was referring to. Angel teacher had said something, hadn't he? “Felt like checking out the- the offers of the school. See what's going on. S'all new.” Oh god, he was blabbing. He didn't blab. Silence or sarcasm, staring or smiting. Not blabbing, for fuck's sake.

“Well, you're more than welcome to stay. It's always nice to see new faces in here. Sit wherever you like. I'm afraid we'll be going through a few not so interesting organisational points first, though, if that doesn't scare you away.” The man was beaming at him now, finally, that genuine sunny smile he wouldn't admit had been running through his head since week one, before turning to the students finally coming in from the hallway and greeting him, avoiding Crowley as best as they could.

He could go now. Disappear. Sneak of into the shadows and pretend this never happened, while angel teacher was busy talking about something or other with Henry, setting up at the front of the room.

Or he could sit down, shut his stupid goddamn mouth for a while, and let his brain get back to non-screeching levels before he made his way back home to get some actual screaming done.

Crowley opted for one of the chairs further in the back, ignored the stares of the unknown students (the ones who'd recognised him were all too used to his biting tone by now, and probably more surprised about his stammering and the very fact that he was here), and plonked down as ungracefully as he could. When he dared to look up, he just barely caught angel teacher's eye shying away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I told you they'd meet. At some point, they might even... introduce themselves to each other. We'll see.


	4. caffeine and nicotine, dopamine or adrenaline?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which they finally talk to each other. Maybe a bit too much, if their anxieties are to be believed.

Aziraphale hadn't lied. The organisational points were boring as hell. Something about another charity event, something about Pride month that was so far away it didn't really matter yet, something about pot lucks and snacks and dietary needs and at some points his brain just finally, blissfully turned off.

“No smoking in the rooms, please.” Pulled him back to attention, though. He hadn't even noticed the cigarette pack he'd begun to fumble around with, but the teacher in the front certainly had as he suddenly stood beside him now. Had he been standing there for longer? Crowley felt the anxiety slowly creep back in.

“Figured they'd fit right in here. Y'know.” He grinned, or at least tried to, and hoped it looked vaguely human. “They're fags, after all.”

“I appreciate the wordplay. As base as it is.” There was a hitch to that smile, he noticed, a little bit of bite instead of beam. He liked it, unfortunately. “But the rule still stands.”

“Was gonna go outside anyway. Fresh air 'n that.” He mumbled before the professor clapped his hands.

“Yes, you're right, I do think a break at this point would be welcomed by most of us here. Alright, dears, back in ten if you want, we'll start the general chat round then.”

Fresh air, my ass. Crowley grumbled at himself as he fought with the lighter, which was not cooperating, just like fucking everything in his life. The students had mostly stayed in the room, some raiding the snack table set up on the side, others darting out for the loo, only two he didn't know sneaking out for a cigarette as well, but keeping more than enough distance from him. Job accomplished, reputation up-held, he guessed.

“They're really not good for you, you know.” He heard from the side just as the little flame finally flickered up and was pulled in by the hasty drag from his lips. Angel teacher had snuck up on him yet again.

“Well.” He flicked the old zippo lighter closed and exhaled the first cloud of relaxing smoke, feeling its effect travel down his spine. “I don't do 'good', so I guess it fits.”

“It's not a very good example to set, either.” The other man's eyes peeked over to the students several steps away, who were having their own little fight with matches.

“Another point proven, then.”

The silence they shared afterwards was not exactly comfortable.

“I'm Professor Fell, by the way. I don't think we ever had a formal introduction in the department for you, did we?”

“Crowley.”

“It's very nice to finally meet you then, Professor Crow-”

“No. Just Crowley.”

“Oh.” Fell startled at that, and Crowley cursed himself for his conversational skills. “Well. Then it's nice to meet you anyway, _Crowley_.” And lord if the way he said his name didn't do something to Crowley's stomach that was very much not welcome anymore.

He let out a plume of smoke, carefully directed away from the poor fellow beside him. The less he said, the better, considering how the evening had gone so far.

“How is drama treating you?” Well, if that wasn't a perfect turn of phrase right there. He shrugged.

“S'alright. No one's revolting yet, unless they're acting it out.”

“That sounds good. I suppose Professor Vista left you enough lesson plans to get on for the start.”

“Why does everyone assume I need a fucking template for my classes?”

“My apologies.” Fell was wringing his hands. “I didn't mean to insinuate you couldn't- I just know it's helpful sometimes to have a little guideline so you don't drift off.”

“I don't drift.”

“Lucky you, then.”

Another round of silence. This was getting familiar. Crowley's cigarette was almost finished, and he wasn't quite sure what he'd do once he had nothing left to focus on.

“Well, I'm still glad to have met you. Here at the club, I mean. I do hope you'll stay for the discussion. I promise it's more interesting.”

And with that, he was left alone, without a cigarette to cling to anymore.

Discussion round _was_ more interesting, he had to admit. He was particularly pleased when he noticed that some of his students were definitely using arguments he'd dropped in his lectures.

He kept to himself, otherwise – there was really no need to show too much of an interest or opinion, he reasoned – safe for a few biting exchanges between him and Marsha. The girl was smiling throughout, and Crowley couldn't help but feel glad about the fact that she wasn't as openly avoiding him as Henry was. (He was quite sure the poor boy would never dare to even utter the word 'gay' in his presence again, and he felt quite some remorse for it.)

At some point, Crowley genuinely forgot about his exit plans long enough to not notice that the meeting had went on for several hours now, and was coming to an end as some people were packing up the tupperware full of snacks they'd brought along.

Right. Time to get out relatively unscathed before anyone dragged him into-

“Sir?”

Goddamnit. He turned around halfway to the door only to come face to face with Marsha and Sarah (Henry was dutifully helping others pack up). What was he doing even reacting to 'sir'? He wasn't sir. He wasn't 'Professor!' either. That was an automatic response he definitely hadn't planned to train into his brain.

“We just wanted to say how cool it is that you came. Even after... things.” Marsha smiled at him.

“Yes. The discussions with you are interesting.” Sarah nodded.

“Yeah, well, you're welcome I guess.” His hand was already fiddling for some more smokes in his pocket. “Don't expect it to become a habit, though.”

“Oh, that's too bad.” Professor Fell chimed in from the side and almost made him jump. Jesus, how could a man of that size sneak up so goddamn well? “I really do think you could bring an interesting view to our group.”

Crowley fixed him with a stare. “And exactly what view would that be?”

“Oh, um, well.” Fell was stuttering. “It's just rare to have someone with a bit more maturity in the group. Usually I'm fending off the youngsters on my own.” He laughed nervously and Crowley really wished he hadn't asked quite so aggressively.

“Well sometimes Miss Anathema helps you out too.” Henry finally joined the group, shrouded in the safety of Professor Fell, who gave him a sneaky wink.

“Don't let her catch you counting her amongst the 'mature' group, my boy. She's hardly older than you all.”

The conversation went on for a bit between them, and Crowley could not find a good enough moment to escape despite saying absolutely nothing anymore. Instead, he became painfully aware of a quite stinging and absolutely unnecessary bout of jealousy for little Miss Anathema, who took Fell out to lunch at wonderful cafes and joined his club discussions.

He barely realised he'd followed the troop out to the campus entry when the kids waved their goodbyes and ran for one of the buses. He quickly realised where he was, though, once he saw nobody but Fell and his worn leatherbag and ridiculous camel overcoat standing next to him in the dark.

“Well, that was certainly a nice meeting!” Fell smiled at him and he instantly felt warmer. “Where are you headed for home, then?”

“Riverside.” He was fumbling for the smokes again. Where the hell had he put that pack?!

“Oh.” It didn't sound as enthusiastic as his previous ones. “That's on the other end of town for me, then. I could walk you to the bus stop on Eccles Street, though.”

“Sure.” Crowley stared into dark night sky and wondered what was wrong with the bus stop right around the corner. He could make his escape that way, there would probably be a bus in no less than fifteen minutes, and then he'd be safe. Get back to the flat, get some screaming out, maybe some more wine in, and try to sleep instead of spending all night running through everything he did wrong today.

Or he could do something right for once. He found the cigarettes and pulled one out, not even looking at Fell's raised eyebrows when he lit it.

“There a good coffee place on the way to Eccles Street? I need some caffeine for the way home.”

The man beside him physically rose up as if he was blooming.

“Oh, I know just the place!” And with that, he was off babbling about the superb coffee and cakes at this quaint little place called the Apple Tree, apparently.

They'd settled at one of the smaller tables in the far corner, away from the panicked group of graduates typing out some last-minute essays at the window high seats. Fell had gotten a London fog, which Crowley found particularly interesting to remember, and a slice of some sort of cake. He was content with his quadruple shot Mocha, which Fell was giving quite some side-eye too.

“Are you planning to sleep at all tonight?”

“Not if I can help it.” Crowley took a sip. It was really good coffee.

“I take it you've got some bigger plans for the night then? Or the weekend?”

“Not really.” Crowley's hands, which weren't allowed to nurse a cigarette in here either, idly scraped along his glass of sugary adrenaline. “Just not a big fan of sleeping too much.”  
“That doesn't seem healthy.”

“We'd established that, hadn't we?”

He got a smile for that. Good. It was easier when it was turned into a joke.

“So you've been at Tadfield University for just about two months now, right?” Fell picked up a piece of his cake – lemon something, Crowley deduced from the colour – and it took all he had not to concentrate too much on his lips as he slipped the fork in his mouth. “What University did you teach at before?”

“None.” His mouth was faster than his brain when it was occupied with something else, apparently. The look on Fell's face brought him back down quickly, though. “I mean, not for the past few months. I was at Gracepoint last year. Broadchurch before that. And Erendreich in the beginning.”

“That's quite a career.”

“All just short term.” This was getting into dangerous territory.

“And your initial studies?”

“Are we re-doing my interview, or what is going on?”

“Sorry.” Fell focussed on his cake instead. “I just like to know where my colleagues are standing, research-wise. A background helps with that.”

“I read drama at Gaulfreyd.” He tried to smooth the waves out of the situation. “Mostly focussed on Shakespeare, apart from the modern stuff. Conformity and non-conformity in gender roles, sexuality and... and desires in his plays, that kind of thing. It was a bit newer and interesting back then. Pretty sure by now every first year has at least one essay on it.”

And with that, the smile was back. “I'm afraid to admit, I have handed out a few research topics that could fit into that description, yes.”

“Well, you'd be mighty bored by my PhD thesis, then.”

“I wouldn't say that. I'd love to read it, surely.”

“What about you?” Change the topic, change the topic. Get the questions in first, then he can't ask any more that you might not be able to answer.

“Oh, I've been at Tadfield since the beginning.” Another forkful of cake. There was a bit of meringue stuck to his lips. No. Focus. He's talking. “I got along so well with my Professor during my studies that he offered me an aide position, and then got me into my PhD program too. And then, well, straight through to teaching.”

“That's quite a career too.”

“It's nice of you to think that.” He smiled, noticed the meringue, and – licked it off. Focus. _Focus_. “But I guess it's a tad boring compared to your travels.”

“Just goes to show that they knew what they had in you, and tried to keep you as best as they could.”

He earned another smile for that, and then Fell ordered another piece of cake.

Once a baseline was established, chatting seemed easy. They shared several topics of interest, and what they didn't share, they could heartily argue about – books, plays, history, extremely random points of opinion – and even found a few things to gossip about (namely, students, old lecturers and the atrocious food the cafeteria dared to serve under the label of being 'nutritious'). Time flew by as they bickered and talked, and Crowley barely kept track of it except for the notice of a third piece of cake being ordered.

“Oh goodness me. It must be late.” Fell fished a pocket watch out from somewhere – of course he had a pocket watch, Crowley thought, there was absolutely no way this Dickensian gentleman was not planning to be his absolute ruin. “I've kept you for far too long, I'm terribly sorry.”

“Absolutely not.” Crowley raised his almost empty second mocha – only a triple shot this time. “As I said, sleep is overrated anyway.”

“Still, I shouldn't keep you from getting home any longer. It was lovely to chat, though.” Fell patted his arm as they went up the counter, and the simple touch made Crowley lose focus until it was too late to offer to pay for both of them.

As they stepped out to the street and said their goodbyes, Crowley was surprised to notice that he was more than content with the plume of smoke appearing from his mouth because of the cold air as he walked to the bus stop – there was no need for a cigarette right now. Something told him that, despite the massive amount of coffee, he would sleep quite well today.

-*-

Aziraphale, if pressed, would not be able to come up with a genuine answer for what he was doing. In fact, he was barely aware he was actively doing it. He just seemed to run into Crowley more than any other colleague. For some reason, he was always stepping out of his office just as the darkly dressed man did, and he always seemed to walk past while he was lighting a cigarette on the steps or in the inner yard. The university was big, but their department was not, and one should expect more than enough random encounters if one spent as much time in the same building as he did.

It would be simply impolite, then, to not strike up a chat, say a quick hello, or offer an invitation to bring over some frankly horrible coffee from the cafeteria during his next break. So he did. (And wilfully ignored the thermos of coffee that was always sitting on Crowley's desk.)

If pressed any further, Aziraphale might've even dared admit that he felt strangely drawn to the new drama teacher. It just felt right. Their chats were jovial, without too much depth, but deeply enjoyable. And, he'd learned that with enough patience and innocent questions, there was always a new bit of information to gain from the attractive stranger.

He'd only recently moved to town from London for the job, and was still getting settled in his flat. He quite liked the green and lush riverside it was at, and especially the wine bar two houses down, because of their good selection and their indiscrete knowledge to not pester him with service for too long, apparently. He'd been smoking since he was fourteen, and had quit about once every year, which obviously proved extremely successful as he lit another cigarette while he explained that. Despite his field of research and obvious interest in Shakespeare, any mention of the Royal Shakespeare Company seemed to make him break out in shudders and just about ended any conversation they were having.

He was interesting. He was bitingly funny. He was smart, and from time to time, when the sun hit his sunglasses at just the right angle, Aziraphale could see in his eyes that he was kind.

He couldn't exactly be faulted for wanting to befriend him. It seemed like no one else had bothered to, sadly. And so, despite all the warning signs and worrisome strangers in his head, Aziraphale decided that he could be worth the trouble.

Anathema seemed not amused as her tablet clattered down next to Aziraphale on the cafeteria table.

“I almost believed you'd found the greatest restaurant on Earth for lunch and were trying to hide it from me.” She took a sip of coffee and grimaced. “Which I'd judge you for, you know. Friends are supposed to share good things, not just horrible cafeteria food and graded papers.”

“I'm terribly sorry for missing our lunch dates as of late, dear. I've been quite busy.”

He earned himself a very pointed look.

“I'm not your aide anymore, Professor Fell, but you still can't exactly lie to me about your workload. So what exactly has been keeping you so busy?” She waggled her eyebrows. “Or should I say 'who', not 'what'?”

Aziraphale stared down at his rather unpleasant plate of what the cafeteria pretended to be pasta. If Anathema posed a question like that, she already knew the answer, or at least had a very good guess.

“I've not been cheating on you for lunch, if that's what you're worried about.”

“No, you've just been skipping it entirely to flirt with tall, dark and handsomely mysterious.”

“I am not-!” Aziraphale railed up before almost ducking down. “I'm not _flirting_ , Miss Device. And I don't appreciate you insinuating anything like that.”

Anathema raised another eyebrow, but kept her answer to herself. It was rare to be addressed as Miss Device by Aziraphale, and she knew what he meant by it.

“Sorry. But, in all seriousness: you've been making friends with what the cat dragged in again, haven't you?”

“He's not something dragged in, my dear. Crow- Professor Crowley is a very nice colleague. A good addition to our department. I simply wanted to get to know him better, considering how new he is to the place.”

“Considering how much time you've spent with him so far, I'd say you know him fairly well now. So... anything interesting to report?”

Aziraphale decided to start his lunch instead of answering her.

“Is it true he can only speak with swearwords, insults or sarcasm? The students can't keep gossiping about him.”

“You shouldn't encourage them.”

“I'm not! I swear. I scold them for it, and then I keep it all in mind so I can ask you about it.” She grinned, and Aziraphale was quickly reminded that it wasn't too long ago that she'd been one of the rumour-mongering students – albeit not one of the bad kind. She might have been a trouble-maker, but she knew how to pick her battles. Unfortunately, most of them were with him, if only because she knew him to be a worthy opponent. “I do have heard quite a few chitchats about which side of the street he drives on, if you know what I mean.”  
“The left side, I'd assume, he's not from the continent.”

“No, I mean. They're mostly discussing if he wears simple Oxfords or prefers more elaborate Brogues.”

“They look more like steel toe boots, to be honest.”

“Interesting. But would you know if he-”

“Anathema.” Aziraphale's voice was unusually deep. “I'm fully aware what you're trying to imply. I didn't think I'd have to reprimand you twice in one conversation. You should show a bit more professionalism, now that you're going for your PhD.”

“This is lunch, not a thesis presentation.” She tried to defend herself.

“This is _work_. And I know you mean well, but things like this lead to more trouble than it's worth.”

She gave him one of her signature looks, one of those he never quite knew how to decipher, but always seemed to say more than he wanted. As young as she was, sometimes it felt like she knew more than anyone else.

“You're right, Aziraphale. I'm sorry. I don't mean to scare you off, now that I've finally gotten you back for lunch. Can we please go somewhere else tomorrow, though?”

Aziraphale was still mulling things over while sitting in his office in the afternoon.

It wasn't like there was a problem, really. He'd been careful as always. He'd offered friendship, nothing else. Barely even that – they were colleagues, and a week or two of friendly chitchat did not mean a sudden invitation to exchange hand-braided friendship bracelets, so to say. And even if, there was no reason to think anyone would fault him for that. He was friendly with most of the staff – well, mostly the younger ones, some of whom he'd watched grow into their roles from the beginning of their studies, others he'd welcomed in from outside, glad to find new perspectives, new opinions apart from what the stuffy lecturers of the old structure kept preaching or fighting over. The point he was getting to, obviously, was that befriending and chatting with colleagues was well-known as his thing. Nothing to be talked about.

The fact that he'd made this newest friend at the club, however, proved more difficult to argue against. Taking in the additional info that the students were already discussing said friend's... interests was not helping. Were they also talking about him in conclusion? Had they seen them together? A short moment of panic overcame him as he shuffled around some papers that didn't need sorting.  
He'd never made it a secret that he was as non-straight as his wavering lectures were. It had never been a problem with the faculty, or, at least, they'd never outright said it was a problem. As long as no one else was in the picture, of course. But he remembered things. Rumours. Accusations whispered behind backs, unexplained leaves of absence and sabbaticals, suddenly free positions in the department. It had been long ago, before things had changed in the public eye, and he'd kept his head down as well as he could, but that only made the memory worse, and stronger. As openly as he canvassed for acceptance now, it wasn't easy to forget the shame and regrets of falling in line.

How embarrassing. Here he was, preaching pride and openness and love to his students, but the mere moment he might be considered an active part of it instead of an innocent supporter, his mind broke out old wounds and shrieked Blasphemy! in his ears.

A knock made him realise he'd burrowed his head in his hands, and caused him to quickly sit up and fix himself.

“Hey.” Oh dear. It was Crowley, leaning in his wide open doorway. Had he left the door open? He couldn't remember. Had... had Crowley seen this embarrassing inner monologue? If he did, he didn't let on. “Are you busy?”

“Just- sorting some papers-”

“Good, because-” He paused and took a breath, as if saying this was a heavy duty to bear. “Because I was wondering if you wanted to pop into the Apple Tree on the way home? I'm actually craving for that Mocha, which is a rare thing.”

(He was craving for a many more things, but it was hard enough to admit the Mocha.)

 _I'd love to,_ Aziraphale thought. “Actually,” his mouth offered instead, “I was planning to go to the library for another hour. I need to do some research for- one of my PhD- Miss Device. She asked me about something at lunch.” Coward. You absolute coward.

Crowley seemed to crumble a bit, even as he still leant as nonchalantly as possible in the doorframe, backlit by the afternoon sun from the windows on the other side. His hair seemed like fire flickering around his face.

“How about I join you there? I should do some reading for my next, uh, theory class anyway. And then coffee?”

Aziraphale swallowed. Crowley turned his head, and the light hit his sunglasses just so, and his eyes were so incredibly soft. How could he resist?


	5. Good friends are bad habits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which they don't really fight, and don't really make up, because that'd all involve being proper adults and communicating, and stressing over unexplained tension is a far easier solution.

It was fine. Sitting in the library, pretending to read a book while also pretending not to secretly watch Aziraphale in front of him actually reading was fine. Nothing about it.

He was absolutely not wondering if that had been Aziraphale's attempt at avoiding him. Because if he dared to wonder about that, the whole little card tower of beliefs he'd carefully built up would tumble together.

Aziraphale wasn't avoiding him. Hell, he'd spent the past two weeks actively seeking him out, no matter how much Crowley had tried to hide in the beginning. He'd shown actual interest in him as a person. He'd chatted, and shared, and offered. Two weeks of that constant sunbeam of a smile, that warm voice saying hello, was enough to even bring Crowley's skittish and aloof nerves to rest. The man was obviously interested in him. Maybe not in the way he wanted him to, not in the way he imagined sometimes, when he was drunk enough to let the guilt and panic subside, but at least in a friendly way. Crowley could do that. Crowley could be friends. Not that he'd ever really tried before, but it couldn't be that hard, right? Offer friendship, keep it casual, take what you can get, and absolutely drown yourself in bad coping mechanisms once you got home and were left alone with that constant feeling of need and emptiness in your chest.

So the idea that Aziraphale wanted to avoid him when he finally, finally plucked up the courage to ask him back out on what absolutely wouldn't be a date, but could be construed as such in the dark and deep fantasies keeping him awake at night, was not... not something he should give any thought to.

He should read. He should stop staring at Aziraphale, head bent down just right so that he could see those light blonde lashes covering his eyes, that sneaky curl of hair trailing down on his forehead, those soft lips silently mouthing a word every now and then as he got lost in his book.

He should read. It would actually do him some good, doing a bit of research for his classes. Ranting about plays had been fine up until now, but realising just how much of himself was spilling over into those rants was not. He might need... he might do better with an actual plan for class. (And he sure as hell was not going to go for Vista's, which still laid untouched next to the shredder in his flat.)

“So.” Aziraphale's voice was hushed, which gave him all sorts of ideas until he mentally slapped himself to remember that they were in a library, and talking quietly was the normal thing to do. “What are you researching at the moment? I see you picked a quite good modern translation of Hamlet there.”

“Oh. Yeah. Just. Y'know.” Those were words, at least. Not really a sentence, though. He could do better. “Figured I should read up a bit on it before I throw it at the students in lessons. S'been a while. Don't wanna loose my place while lecturing.”

“I thought you didn't drift.” Fuck, if that slight bite to his usual smile wasn't doing things to Crowley. He hadn't seen much of it during their chats, but he was sure there was far more of a bastard hiding in the friendly professor than anyone would believe.

“I don't.” He bit back. “Still think it would be better to actually remember the source material when you have to fill ninety minutes with a monologue. Otherwise even I might end up spouting nonsense.”

“I imagine a bit of mad talking during a soliloquy about Hamlet would be quite fitting. Maybe end it with dramatically falling backwards to drown in the sink next to the blackboard.”

“Now, y'see, I can tell you're joking, but I'll have you know I was a bloody brilliant Ophelia. The students should be so lucky as to watch me re-enact that.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale piped up in sudden excitement, and Crowley slightly hated himself for already knowing so many of his little quirks and behaviours. “When did you play her? That sounds incredibly interesting. Was it an all-male ensemble, or a whole gender swap?”

“Nnh-yeah- I mean. God, ages ago. Almost a different life, that.” He tried to force a smile and obviously failed. “Wasn't really focused on gender, that adaption – just – open casting, I guess.”

“Oh, I would've liked to see that. I haven't been to the theatre in ages.”

“Yeah.” Crowley swallowed hard. “Me neither.”

“Did you do other Shakespeare roles?”  
“A few.”

“You must've been quite active during your studies. London is such a wonderful playground for that, don't you think? All those little productions.”

“I guess.”

“I really would love to see you on stage. I can imagine-”

“Well.” Crowley interrupted him quite harshly. Even the most socially-inept should've seen his attempts at cutting the topic short just then. “You won't. So there's nothing to imagine.”

The silence following was filled with terrible noise, but Crowley was sure it was only the screaming in his head. Neither of them was reading anymore, but they were quite good at pretending.

“I'm sorry.” Aziraphale mumbled after a while.

“Nothing to apologise for.” Great. Good job, making the poor sod feel guilty. A+ as always, Crowley.

“I should. If this is a sore topic for you-”

“It's not.” Crowley said, sounding exactly as if Aziraphale had pushed a thumb straight into an old wound. “It's just an old thing. I don't act anymore. I teach. Which I should be focussing on, anyway.”

Silence divided them yet again, and no matter how hard he actually tried now, Crowley's eyes could not even focus on the text in front of him. Why was he still so angry about this? It _was_ an old thing, ages ago, just as he'd said. Any normal person would've worked it out of their system by now and gotten done with it. Yet here he was, staring holes into a book whose lines he knew perfectly, but which were swimming before his eyes without any chance of catching them. Why? Why was this one thing, one incident still making him loose what little composure he had?

The dull pain rising through his back as he moved to turn the page reminded him why with stabbing accuracy. He closed the book with just enough force to make Aziraphale jump in his seat.

“You know, I think I should pack up. Got a longer way home than you, and improv class early tomorrow.” He heaved himself out from his lanky position on the chair and tried not to look at the man in front of him. He failed immediately.

“What about coffee?” Aziraphale's eyes were... his entire face seemed worried. Worried about him. _Disappointed, even. Bloody brilliant, Crowley, exactly what you want to see. Not like you're not used to it, hm?_

“Another day.” He tried to force a smile, and failed at that as well. At least he could hide it by waving a quick goodbye and making his exit.

His back kept his mind occupied well enough until he finally sat down in the bus down to Riverside. By then, as the bus passed the Apple Tree cafe, the sudden, familiar feeling of emptiness in his chest was nothing surprising.

-*-

Crowley had yet to show up for improv. Henry was already putting the brooms away while Marsha was stretching on stage (improv always, always involved her rolling or jumping or darting across the stage at least once, so she'd started to prepare).

“He's late.” She stated with some worry as more students started to come in. “He's never late for improv.”

“Maybe he's having a bad day.” Sarah answered while climbing up on stage. 

God, Henry hoped not. He couldn't imagine what bad-day-improv with Crowley would look like.

He would soon learn, he thought, as Crowley finally – a quarter hour late – came in and slammed his bag into one of the seats and dropped down in another.

“Right. Quiet up on stage, please!” Well, at least he could still yell. That had to count for something, right? And he was moving a lot faster than normally on bad days. “We're doing something different today. Those of you who are actually interested probably know auditions for this term's student production are starting soon, so if any of you want to practice for that, let the rest of the class give you feedback.”

He waved his hands in a motion that, apparently, was meant to say 'Begin!' before dropping down into the darkness completely. Half of the class was already discussing starting order, while the rest was climbing down to the seats to watch until their turn. No one dared to even sit close to Crowley, who'd picked a seat three rows back instead of up front as usual.

Henry screwed his courage to the sticking place, so to say, and sat two seats beside him. Marsha had managed to cheer him up once during his bad days – maybe he could at least distract him from it a bit.

After two rounds of dramatic monologues, he still couldn't think of anything to say, though.

“Not gonna do your own bit?” Crowley started the conversation instead, and looked as if he wished it had already ended.

“I'm not really interested in auditions.”

“Bit difficult for aspiring actors, that.”

“I don't-” maybe telling your drama teacher you didn't want to be an actor was a bad idea, concerning final marks, Henry thought. He could at least phrase it a bit nicer. “I'd rather work behind the scenes. Stage management, that sort of stuff. I'm good at organising.”

“Hate to break it to you, kid,” Crowley leaned down in his seat, one arm slung behind it and head lolling back in such a way that Henry barely noticed the cute moniker, “but stage managers generally need a bit more resolve than you have. You can't make Marsha yell instructions for you forever.”

“I know.” He grumbled. “I'm working on it.”

“S'that why you're doing improv? Get more range to your voice?”

“Well. A bit. Mostly I didn't want to leave Marsha alone in her first year. And now with Sarah...” The two girls were down in the pit, getting ready for their turn. Or rather, Marsha was getting ready, already waving her arms around while whispering something. Sarah was busy braiding her incontrollable curls and avoiding any deep-flying arms coming near her. 

“I see. Playing the Good Guardian.” Crowley's voice couldn't have sounded more mocking if he'd tried. “Does Marsha know that?”

Henry shook his head. They'd never talked about it, to be honest. Once they'd gotten into the same university program, Henry had just... assumed things would stay the same as they'd been in school. Marsha running ahead and breaking down walls, Henry behind her to mend any scratches and pick up the pieces.

“Gotta be careful with that, Abbersmith. Not everyone appreciates being coddled.”

“I'm not coddling them.” Henry stared at him, almost breaking out of his stage-whisper. “I'm just being a good friend!”

“From what I've seen,” Crowley ignored his sudden input with a flick of his hand towards the stage, onto which Marsha was climbing, “Marsha can more than take care of herself. She doesn't really need your help out of pity-”

“Wha- it's not pity! I'm helping her because I care! I know she's strong enough on her own, but that doesn't mean she doesn't deserve support from someone she trusts! Are you really this adverse to the concept of being nice?!” 

Henry somewhat remembered sitting down with the intention of distracting Crowley, not riling him up with insults, but the heat of anger rising up to his ears was blurring his view a little. He'd done more than a fair share of fighting for Marsha, and just because he was doing it with a teacher right now didn't mean he would calm down quicker.

Crowley, so far fixing him in place with a look behind glasses, the rest of his face obscured by the hand he was leaning on, dropped it and turned towards the stage. Maybe it was just his imagination, but Henry would've sworn there was a bit of a smile ghosting around the bastard's lips.

“You're a good kid, Abbersmith.” He heard just as Marsha was beginning her very energetic speech on stage. “But leave the intense monologuing to your friends.”

Crowley was glad he'd thought of the audition option for improv even before he needed it as an excuse for a bad day. Not that he was having a standard bad day. His legs were fine today, and his back was only doing the usual daily grind of 'thought of standing straight, fucker? Think again.' instead of the dialled-up version it sometimes trotted out for bad days. The only thing out of order today, really, was his head. Having an embarrassing one-sided fight with a student didn't really help, he scolded himself, and was probably the stupidest thing he'd done the past few days. And to be fair, he'd done a whole lot of stupid things, even if he wouldn't admit it.

He'd gone to sleep when he came home yesterday. Considering he hadn't gotten his coffee, it hadn't been that difficult. He'd laid down, gone to sleep, had not thought about anything he shouldn't think about, and now his mind was solely focussed on today. 

Maybe he'd had a cigarette first. For the nerves. And a glass of wine, considering the bottle was still open and would definitely go bad soon. It's not like he had money like that to waste. And it was easier to finish the bottle if you took it with you instead of just the glass. But that was that. He absolutely didn't sit on his balcony (the flat had come furnished, which was good, but thus also came with a very clear non-smoking clause, which was bad) until about two in the morning, opening another bottle of something stronger and cursing himself for being an idiot. 

An idiot for starting a squabble about something so stupid as a light conversation. An idiot for, once again, running off and hiding. But more than anything, an idiot for fooling himself into thinking this could work. That he could be friends without any drama popping up (in more than one way). That he could actually have a nice thing without fucking it all up and making him feel worse than before. 

Anyway, he'd gone to sleep pretty soon after, and woken with the clear decision that it was better to cut his losses early on, blind to the irony of yet again running away. He'd be polite to Aziraphale, keep his distance, let the other man give up soon enough, and then things would be back to normal. Nothing gained, nothing lost. A very good decision, overall, considering the alternative of short-lived happiness and excruciating pain after.

So, with that decision in mind, finding a to-go cup with the logo of a lovely little apple tree on his desk as he came in was not exactly. Helpful. Neither was the note pinned under it.

_A quadruple shot peace offering_

_~ Aziraphale Z. Fell_

-*-

Aziraphale was still not sure if he'd done the right thing. He simply couldn't bear the thought of ending a fight this way, though. Not that he was sure it even was a fight. More an exchange of very curt words. A little squabble about a misunderstanding.

Whatever it was, it had been Aziraphale's fault, as it usually was. He should've known better, chatting away about Crowley's acting, blissfully unaware of the many times the poor man had avoided the subject before. He really should've noticed him pulling away. And he shouldn't have let him run off like that without a proper apology. In conclusion, there were a many great things Aziraphale shouldn't have done.

Maybe he shouldn't have bought that coffee, either.

Remembering Crowley's order that well, going into his office when he wasn't there, that ridiculous note he left, and with a full signature?! It was too much. It had to be. Crowley would've probably preferred to let things rest for a while, keep his distance, maybe give him a chance to start over a few week's down the line, if at all.

Maybe Aziraphale had read the whole situation wrong from the very beginning. He remembered now, with painful clarity, Crowley's many attempts to disappear into the shadows – or his office – the first few times he'd said hello. He remembered short answers, shoulder shrugs, abrupt topic changes. Maybe the man had never wanted anything to do with him at all, and this disagreement was simply the last result from a long line of annoyances.

He had invited him, though. Aziraphale had passed the cafe on his way home basically every day, wondering if it would be at all appropriate to ask him back here, wondering why he thought it shouldn't be appropriate to ask an acquaintance out for coffee, and realising very quickly why. Having lunch off-campus with Anathema, whom he'd known since she was a student, and who was directly working with him, was one thing. Asking the handsome, obviously-not-straight newcomer out after work was a very different thing. At the very least, it could be misconstrued by anyone who'd see them, even if neither of them had meant it that-

Had Crowley meant it that way? Had he considered the implications, and made a far more courageous decision than Aziraphale?

A cold shiver went down his back which was not, entirely, unpleasant. It was a ludicrous idea, of course. As if Crowley would see _him_ that way. As if the slender, well-dressed ex-actor from London was interested in a frumpy, dressed-even-older-than-he-already-was teacher. As if...

But what if?

Guilt soon overtook the small sliver of excitement and hope he was building up. Even if, it would only make the whole deal more awful. Here he was, considering if he'd actually been asked out on a date, and his reply had been that he needed to go to the library instead? Which he visited daily anyway? And then, when Crowley had even dutifully followed him there, he'd affronted him and poured salt into old wounds?

All of a sudden, he wasn't sure if the coffee had actually been enough. He'd probably blown the only little chance he'd had with the whole thing.

Aziraphale sighed and rubbed across his eyes. He was getting nowhere, sitting in his office and letting his mind drift off into impossible scenarios and what-ifs. He'd offered the coffee, and if Crowley wanted to, he could take it. If not, it would be clear enough that even Aziraphale understood it. That was it. No more over-thinking things.

He packed up his trusty old bag. A good book and some research in the library would take his mind off of things, as it always did.

“Fell!” The voice was familiar. Still roaming through the stacks looking for just the right book, Aziraphale saw an equally familiar shadow of black appear next to him. “Glad I found you!”

It couldn't be. He couldn't-

“No one in this goddamn library understands the shelving system. I can't for the life of me find this damned book I need. I'm sure you know your way around here, right?”

Of course. How silly of him to believe...

“I'd be glad to help you, dear.”

He'd needed a book. That was it. Once they'd found it, Crowley had wandered off to one of the tables further away, where the window bathed him in fiery red afternoon sunlight yet again. Aziraphale was absolutely not hiding behind a shelf to watch him. He was still looking for his own book, that was all.

Crowley's hair was half-up today, in a little bun that seemed hastily done up and a bit wonky. A few strands had wriggled free, hanging over his eyes, or rather his sunglasses, and shining almost gold in the sun. Aziraphale felt an itch in his hand he'd never noticed before, wanting to swipe those strands back behind his ears, maybe linger there for a moment before opening the bun and letting the loose curls fall free to -

There was something in front of Crowley and the book they'd found him. A cup of coffee. Aziraphale's cup of coffee, to be exact.

This time around, the realisation felt blazing hot, rather than ice cold. It still wasn't very unpleasant.

“Would you mind if I sit here?” Aziraphale put a hand on the chair opposite him. He'd finally found his own book to read.

“Be my guest.” Crowley mumbled after looking up for just a second.

They sat in a silence that wasn't nearly as deafening as it had been yesterday. Aziraphale could not help but choke back a little smile of... what, exactly? Relief? No, it was a little more than that.

A small, crinkling box of biscuits suddenly made its way to his side of the table. He looked up only to see Crowley still very interested in his book as he pushed it over. If there was a slight blush to his face, that surely could be explained away by the heat of the afternoon sun shining on them both.

“I don't think food is allowed in the library.” He couldn't resist teasing.

“I've seen you sneak entire sandwiches in here, Fell, so don't get smart with me. Besides, there's no one around to snitch on us.”

True. Aziraphale looked over the box of biscuits, and picked the most chocolatey of Crowley's piece offerings.


	6. Intricate Rituals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which everything is fine the way it is, and nothing needs to change, except it absolutely should, and Aziraphale is finally less of a coward than Crowley is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm quite sorry about the super-delayed update, and unfortunately I've used my entire backup now, so new chapters might take a long while to come. Mixing writer's block with a lot of real life stress and duties does not make for good writing, I'm afraid. But at least I'm determined not to let the story die out so soon, I promise.

Friday afternoons in the library had become a ritual. As the students scrambled to leave campus as quickly as possible to start the weekend, Crowley made his way to the cozy, sunlit hall filled to the brim with books. Aziraphale was already waiting at their by now usual table, coffee and tea from the Apple Tree neatly in place. A box filled with sweets of some sort would mysteriously appear after a while, and Crowley would always pretend to read while Aziraphale had his first bites of whatever he'd found in the bistros and shops on the Riverside. The best choices would get him quite a show of soft smiles and closed eyes and deep sighs and licked fingers, and Crowley immediately began a mental cache of which snack would get him which response. (Macaroons and Madeleines were nice, but gone too soon. Florentines came with a lot of crumbs and thus a lot of tutting and finger-licking, as did Cannelès with their sticky covering. But the French bakery two streets down had nothing against the Portuguese shop around the corner, with its custard filled Pastéis de Nata and their crumbling puff pastry shell. Crowley could probably write an entire paper on Aziraphale eating Pastéis de Nata. Maybe not one safe for publication, though.)

They actually read in between chats (and in between snack breaks & observations) and compared notes, discussing the newest additions to the library, and students in both their courses noted a sudden turn towards almost structured lessons. Not that Aziraphale was not prone to ramble about the newest books he'd finally gotten round to reading, and not like Crowley wasn't still ranting about whatever he'd picked up the week before or handing out badly made copies from library finds during bad days. But there was a bit more context to their respective monologues, and if anyone had had the attention span and deductive skills, they would've maybe even noticed how often very similar or connected topics crept up in their lectures. (Henry had pointed it out once, but had quickly been waved away by Marsha. It was literature and drama, of course there was some overlap when it came to plays and stories.)

Every second Friday, they would pack up a little earlier, head back to their offices, spend a bit of time preparing – or silently fighting with themselves and having a smoke – and only then walk back to the library hallway for LGBT+ club. Crowley had brought it up – surely Aziraphale had to prepare something, look up those questions Sarah had raised last time, maybe get some more current resources than he could find in books? - and Aziraphale had gladly taken the hinted at offer. Neither of them were particularly interested in giving the students a special show, coming in together from the library and starting up rumours. They didn't talk about it, but they had simply come to a silent agreement, each side believed, of being good work friends. No need to stir up trouble or make people believe they were anything else.

(God, how he'd cherish being anything else, Crowley thought. How it would feel to actually meet up somewhere off-campus, go somewhere that wasn't a well-hidden table in the corner of a dusty, barely used library, talk about something else than whatever they were reading or pretending to read, _do anything else_. Invite Aziraphale to one of the bakeries he kept bringing him sweets from, get a table at the window, brush away the crumbs from the corner of his lip before Aziraphale even noticed them, lean over and -

But they were work friends, and they hadn't had a fight ever since, and he would take what little happiness he could get from all of this and not try to shake it up, not ruin it like he always did.)

(And by God how he wished things could be shaken up a little, Aziraphale thought. How lovely it would be to sit at a cafe with Crowley, or have him over for dinner, or go to an exhibition they both liked. How wonderful it might feel not to hide for once, not from the public nor from himself. To take Crowley's hand while it restlessly tapped on the table, hold it in his own. Say _something_. Say all the things that were running through his mind as he watched him read each Friday, covered in that glorious afternoon sun, shining as if a halo had manifested around his red curls.

But they were work friends, and they hadn't moved to be anything else since, and he would not push Crowley again just for his own selfish whims and wishes, afraid that it would lead to another fight, another running away.)

Friday afternoons had become a ritual, and they both cherished it very much, and neither of them would ever admit that they wanted anything more. Surely, that way could lie nothing but trouble and unwanted pain. Easier to focus on the books, share a random interesting tidbit they found while going through them once in a while, have a quick discussion about whatever Crowley was researching, share a laugh about an old-fashioned expression Aziraphale dramatically read out, and ignore everything else that was brewing inside them.

-*-

“Do you ever eat?” Aziraphale mumbled one afternoon, eyeing the frankly gigantic cup of coffee Crowley had emptied during their time in the library. In that space, Aziraphale had already devoured 3/4ths of today's snack (tiny lemon eclairs, a spring time special).

“Given that humans require food to survive, yes.”

“Do you eat _enough_?” Aziraphale's eyes skimmed across his long fingers, the wiry arms, and would've probably drifted over the torso made of nothing but skin, bones and muscle underneath the slim black dress shirt if Crowley clearing his throat hadn't drawn him out of it.

“I'm pretty sure by this point in my life I should've figured out how much nutrition I need.” He wasn't lying, at least. He was just avoiding the truth. Aziraphale knew it well from some of his wittier students.

“That wasn't a yes.”

They shared a very quick, but very effective silent stare-down. Crowley lost.

“Well then.” Aziraphale collected his books to put away. “I'd say we're going to the cafeteria for a late lunch.”

“Oh, the _cafeteria_!” Crowley mock-repeated. “Now _there's_ a place that will entice me to eat!”

“Oh hush, you.” Aziraphale toyed with the long-banished idea, just for a second, to invite him out to one of the lovely bistros or cafes that were close. But that was... no, he'd had that mental argument before. No need to push into strange new territories. Lecturers meeting at the cafeteria seemed not nearly as scandalous at the moment. “They have a very nice salad bar, at least.”

“You're trying to tempt me with salad. Really.”

“It has croutons. And bacon bits.” Aziraphale didn't know what his voice was doing. It was almost... salacious. “And a very good selection of dressings that are decidedly not healthy.”

Crowley stared at him, and for a moment he feared he'd gone too far, before a sly grin lifted the left side of those annoyingly wonderful lips.

“Alright, temptation accomplished, I guess.”

As expected of a Friday afternoon, the cafeteria was mostly empty – both of people and food. Aziraphale picked one of the slightly less soggy looking wraps and Crowley, after another very clear look from him, dutifully trotted over to the salad bar.

Once they'd settled in one of the small booths, Crowley moved to pull his hair up into the loose bun he wore sometimes when his hair became especially cumbersome, and Aziraphale couldn't help but follow his movements with his eyes. There was just something about the way his already tight shirt stretched across his shoulders, and the swiftness of his fingers, hair curled around them, pulled tight-

Crowley was looking at him. Aziraphale quickly stared down at his unappetizing wrap.

“You alright?”

“I was just wondering about- it's called a man-bun, isn't it?”

“Let's just call it a bun.” Crowley mumbled and stabbed his salad once. “What's wrong with it? You don't like it?”

“Oh no, dear! It's very nice. Makes you look very.” Dashing. Sexy. Irresistible. Surely he could find a safer word. “Hip.”

“Hip.”

“Yes, you know. Modern. Oh, wait, it's not hip, is it, it's – hipster, is that right?”

Crowley stared at him with a twitch to his lips, before he threw his head back as he laughed with a cackle that sounded as if he was auditioning for the lead villain. It should've spooked Aziraphale a bit, maybe, but it did nothing to keep him from staring again. At this angle, more than anything, he could see the drama teacher's slightly crooked teeth, the pointy incisors on both sides standing out. The man had _fangs_ , for god's sake. Aziraphale imagined how they would feel on skin. Scraping along, nipping, biting down not enough to injure, but hurt just that little bit that could be exciting...

“Hipster. Don't think I've ever been called that before. Should probably consider it an insult.” The voice tore him out of his thoughts. At least he didn't sound angry, not the way Aziraphale remembered it.

“It's not an insult! I'm just saying, it looks just the way the young people like. I've seen some students with it.”

“Are you trying to tell me I should come to my senses and accept my age?”

“No, I-”

“Start dressing in corduroy and muted browns, yeh? Get some oxfords and a nice jacket with elbow patches? Maybe an embroidered handkerchief?”

“Oh, I see where you're going.” Aziraphale huffed. “I do not own embroidered handkerchiefs.”

Crowley laughed again, a bit less cackling this time, but not with any less teeth. Aziraphale's thoughts drifted faster than any of his lectures ever had.

“You alright, Fell? Sorry if I went a bit too far.”

Crowley's eyes behind the glasses were pointed down towards his hands now, he realised, at the same time that he realised he'd been wringing the flimsy paper towel from the cafeteria so much it had turned into shreds.

“Oh, yes, dear, sorry, just lost in thought for a bit. A bad habit.” He put the shreds away and brushed what had trailed down from them off of his thighs. Crowley's eyes definitely followed past the table.

“S'not so bad. Long as you don't destroy one of your priceless antique hand-stitched handkerchiefs or something.”

“Again, I do not own antique handkerchiefs. That would be ridiculous.”

“Exactly why I expect you to own them.” Crowley's left eyebrow had risen up with his cocky grin, flashing yet another look at one of his incisors. Aziraphale could do nothing but harrumph and get up for another paper towel. The wrap was soggier than it had looked.

Aziraphale noticed the students ducking their heads a few tables as he went back to their own. He recognised them well enough – a quite familiar little troupe, passing the time before LGBT+ club. His quick 'hello!' was met with some surprise – shock, even – as if they'd been caught at something. Most went back to their meals after returning the greeting, while some others kept sneaking glances at the booth in the back.

 _They've been watching us_ , he realised. It was not a pleasant realisation.

Maybe he was overreacting. None of them had probably seen Crowley eat before, judging from what he knew about his eating habits now. Maybe that was the more surprising thing to witness, rather than two professors having a chat.

“You've got an ardent little fan club. They must be quite shocked to see you dine amongst the simple folk.” He forced a smile as he sat back down.

“Fell, I told you, I eat-” Crowley argued before sneaking a look at the students in question. “Oh god, them. Yeah. They're like vermin, aren't they? Little rats, getting under your feet, can't get rid of them.”

“Well they seem to have elected you as the rat king, my dear, from what I've seen at the club. They're quite fond of you.”

Crowley snorted and quickly ignored that compliment.

“That's a terrible nickname to give someone, given the meaning of the word.”

“All the more reason it fits you. Or would you prefer the Pied Piper for your rat army instead?”

Crowley's head turned back towards Aziraphale to catch one of his sneaky smiles, one of those that wasn't all sunbeams and glitter.

“Bastard.” He grinned back.

“Takes one to know one.”

“Oh, I'm well aware of my full bastardy. Downright proud of it. Never met one the likes of you, though.” Was he flirting? Aziraphale wasn't sure what constituted flirting anymore. Maybe he'd never known. Maybe he'd just been lucky before, when it hadn't meant anything.

“I've no idea what you're talking about, dear boy.” Aziraphale dabbed at the corner of his mouth with the paper towel before folding up the leftovers of his wrap.

“You know very well-”

“Aziraphale!” A low, yet bright voice interrupted them. Anathema had snuck up to the table without either of them noticing. “Sorry to interrupt, but can I sit with you? I didn't think you were getting lunch so late!”

“Anathema, dearest.” Aziraphale half stood up to greet her and point to the chair in front of him with a glowing smile. “Of course, sit! I'm sorry, my girl, I completely forgot you were coming to the club today. I would've knocked on your office door otherwise.”

“Oh, it's no problem. Hello,” she said with a sly smile as she turned to Crowley and offered her hand, “I'm Anathema Device. I'm writing my PhD with Professor Fell.”

“Heard of you.” Crowley said with a strange note to his voice, but he shook her hand nonetheless. “Crowley.”

“Oh, the new drama teacher! Then I've heard about you too, and not just rumours. Good to finally meet you and see the truth.”

“I suppose.” Crowley stabbed at his salad again. “So you're Fell's little liege, then? Or from what I remember from my PhD time, serf might be the better term.” Aziraphale supposed he deserved that, after the rat army stab.

“I guess so. I mean, I'm used to doing his bidding, at least. I was his teaching aide before that, and an overly helpful student in the beginning. Ingratiating, some might say.”

Anathema laughed, and Aziraphale tried to. Something in Crowley's smile didn't seem... right.

“Oh don't say that, dear. You were a very good student, and an excellent aide. And your doctorate will be just as interesting.”

“I'm sure you say that to every pretty girl writing about one of your favourite topics.”

“Only if they're as lovely as you, and the topic at least as fascinating.”

They laughed together now as Aziraphale patted her arm. Crowley stood up abruptly, to the bewildered looks of both of them.

“Sorry.” He coughed. “Didn't realise how much I needed a cigarette. S'been a few hours. Addiction's the worst.” The not-right smile only grew as he picked up his half-eaten salad bowl. “I'll see you both at the club, then. Miss Device. Fell.”

“Did I say something wrong?” Anathema looked at Aziraphale after Crowley had vanished from his view, and he still had to physically pull his gaze away from the door to answer her.

“I have no idea, my dear. He does smoke an awful lot, though.”

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have interrupted you two- I didn't even think of it when I came up. You probably wanted to be alone.”

“Why would you think that?” Aziraphale shook his head. “You're always welcome.”

“Just. You know.” Anathema wiggled her eyebrows once, with that look again, the one that knew more than she let on. “Haven't seen you together outside the library for a while.”

Aziraphale felt hot and cold at the same time.

“You- you've seen us in the library?”

“I haven't stalked you or anything, if that's what you think. But I do need some of the books you hide back there for my thesis. I just heard you chatting, is all.” Anathema sipped her coffee. “And saw you snacking, which I should scold you for, the way you taught me.”

This wasn't good. Breaking the Friday afternoon ritual by going to the cafeteria hadn't been a good decision, Aziraphale worried now. Maybe the ritual itself hadn't been a good decision, if Anathema had already discovered them-

what was even there to discover? Aziraphale shook his head.

“My dear, not to disappoint you, but whatever you're imagining in that pretty head of yours is just that. Imagination.” He gave her a stern look and hoped it would say more than he could. “We tend to research similar topics for class, so we've decided to help each other out sometimes.”

“Of course.” Anathema nodded, took another sip of coffee, and hit Aziraphale with the most telling of all looks. “Is that why he still calls you Fell?”

“Excuse me?”

“Just saying. You usually offer up your first name very quickly. To friends, at least.”

“I-” Aziraphale had no answer to that. He'd genuinely forgotten, it seemed. Sure, he'd written it on the note, but that was... something else entirely. “I guess it just stuck. He insists on Crowley, himself.”

“Mhm. Maybe you should unstick it. And yourself.” Anathema emptied her coffee and spared him another look. “Time for the club, then. Let's go.”

-*-

Crowley was down to his last cigarette, he realised as he lit it. The meeting had probably already started. He could see Aziraphale's worried look around the room before his inner eye. It's not like he was completely used to Crowley running off yet, not like everyone before was.

He could just go. The vise grip on his heart, the constant pounding and thumping of the hole inside his chest had not subsided after three cigarettes, and probably wouldn't for the rest of the evening. Not really a state to be in during heated queer debates. The bus ride home would settle his restless mind, and if not, a few glasses of wine would.

No. Crowley inhaled deeply and let the smoke slowly swirl out from between his lips. He was being an idiot. Stuck in the past, full of fears and prejudices.

Aziraphale wasn't like that. And the poor girl wasn't like he had been. They were friends, obviously, they went to lunch together, and she came to help out at the club sometimes, and doing research with him for her PhD. That was it. He couldn't keep looking for hidden meanings and brash hints amongst everything someone said to him. She probably hadn't thought about anything when she mentioned rumours.

The cigarette was losing its ash rapidly. Crowley tried to think about Aziraphale's sneaky smile as they teased each other instead, the way he'd paused before the word 'hip', how he'd _clearly_ watched him in the cafeteria. That was important. That was what his mind should focus on – or maybe not, if he wanted to stay friends. His chest gave one more aching thug as he opened his bun, then he stubbed out his cigarette and made his way down the hallway to the library.

The meeting was okay. Anathema had come by to discuss some more, for lack of a better word, modern topics that Aziraphale hadn't felt knowledgeable enough about. He beamed at her as she swayed over into a discussion about feminism (the student apple did not fall far from the teacher tree, Crowley reasoned, when it came to hopping across topics), and then he beamed at Crowley although he hadn't said anything, but rather leaned so far back in his chair that he was almost sliding off of it.

So everything was okay. Especially when Anathema excused herself quickly at the end of it all while Crowley and Aziraphale were still putting chairs and tables back in order, and he beamed at him again and said Thank you in that way he always did to make Crowley's heart jump, as if Crowley didn't help every time just to hear it, no matter how much his back yelled at him to stop carrying heavy stuff around.

“That was a lovely meeting again, wasn't it?”

Crowley nodded as he pushed the last chair back into place. Aziraphale swayed back and forth waiting for him at the door.

“You know, I don't even feel tired yet, despite the late hour on a Friday for an old chap like me.” He laughed before slightly clearing his throat. “What would you say to another round of coffee?”

That was fast. Crowley almost felt as if he'd gotten whiplash from Aziraphale's decisions today. Cafeteria, and now the cafe too? Something in his head began to scream again.

“I think I've had more than enough coffee today.” The screaming got louder. No. Wrong. Stupid. Don't- don't do that. Don't run off again. Don't say something that makes Aziraphale pull that kind of face- _say something to make the face go away, now!_

“I'd rather go for a glass of wine to round the evening off. You know a place for that too?”

Now it was Aziraphale's turn to look, just for a second, as if he'd run into a wall without noticing. Then the softest smile Crowley had ever seen spread across his face instead.

“I know just the place!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: not a single one of these scenes were in the original outline for the story. They just keep... bickering and pining for each other while I try to write something.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading!  
> I can't exactly promise regular updates, and have nooo idea how many chapters this silly story is going to take.  
> Tags and possibly ratings will be added/adjusted as the story goes on.


End file.
